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SOME  OF  THE 


RHYMES 


OF 


1RONQUILL 


(A   BOOK   OF    MOODS.) 


/'//  wear  Arcturus  for  a  bosom-pin" 


TENTH  EDITION. 


TOPEKA,  KANSAS,  U  S.A.: 

CRANE    &    COMPANY. 

1900. 


Copyright  1900,  by  CKANE  &  Co. 


PREFACE. 

When  back  into  the  alphabet 
The  critic's  satires  shall  have  crumbled, 
When  into  dust  his  hand  is  humbled, 

One  verse  of  mine  may  linger  yet. 


645260 


INDEX. 

PAGE. 

AD  ASTRA 115 

ADIKU 344 

ADVICE  95 159 

yKsor's  FABLES 204 

V  AGREED  STATEMKNT ' 227 

AGRICOLA  ET  FILIUS 205 

ALABAMA  TO  KANSAS : . . . 184 

ALGOMAR 181 

ALTRUISM 202 

ANCHORS 51 

ANGIUS  ET  ANGUISH 206 

AXE-I-DKNT 209 

AZTEC  CITY 40 

.    BACCARAT 165 

BANDIT,  KANSAS 282 

BIRD  SONG 57 

ELAINE 117 

BUZZARD 126  ' 

BLUE-BIRD 142 

BOOMER  .    202 

BROWN,  JOIIN 81 

CABIN 120 

CADMUS 164 

CANINE 211 

CAPER 217 

CARNIVAL  QUEKN 70 

CHAOS 56 

CHILDHOOD 71 

CHILD  OF  FATE 95 

CHILDREN 112 

(v) 


vi  INDEX. 

CONVENTION 200 

CORN  POEM 237 

COWCATCHER 215 

CRANES  AND  GKKSK 45 

CRUSADES 66 

DECORATION  DAY 89 

DEFAULTER 93 

DEWEY 64 

DJKLXPRWBZ 161 

DOCTOR 200 

DREAM,  QUININK 175 

DUG-OUT 98 

EL,  MORAN 73 

ELUSION 125 

EMPEROR  WILLIAM 168 

EXPERIENCE 200 

FABLES 204 

FAILURE 42 

FATE 95 

FEAR  YE  HIM 87 

FIRST  WIFE 186 

FISHER  MAIDEN 21 

FLOPPER 194 

FORT  SCOTT  OWL 154 

FRAUDS 48 

FUNSTON   AND    HoBSON    184 

GEESE  AND  CRANES 45 

GLORY 47 

GRANGER'S  TEXT 155 

GRIZZLY-GRU 139 

HANNO 48 

HE  AND  SHE  . .  . .   193 


INDEX.  vii 

HEARTS 110 

HEKDEB 25 

Hie  JONES 227 

HISTORY 124 

HOBSON  AND   FUNSTON 184 

HOLY  WAR 65 

HOMEOPATHY  ... 200 


IDYL 170 

INGALI.S  ANI>  VOOHIIKES 200 

INSURANCE  AGENT 214 

INVIDIOUS  CANINE 211 

lOLINE 75 

ITALIAN  SONNET 137 

JACKPOT 172 

JAIL 180 

JOHN  BROWN 81 

KANSAS  BANDIT 282 

KANSAS  DUG-OUT 98 

KANSAS  HERDEU 25 

KANSAS  IDYL 170 

KANSAS  JAIL 180 

KANSAS  OCTOBER 38 

KANSAS  — QUIVERA 61 

KANSAS  TO  ALABAMA 184 

KANSAS  VETERAN 151 

KARMYL 146 

KRITERION 19 

LEAP- YEAR  PARTY  . ' 157 

LEGOUSIN  Ai 97 

LEWIS  vs.  STATE 222 


viii  INDEX. 

LIFE  INSURANCE  AGENT 214 

LIFE'S  MOONKISE 84 

LlGHTNING-BuG 207 

LlMBURGER 212 

LOVELY  WOMAN 203 

LOVIST...  ..197 


MARMATON 31 

MEDICINE  MAN 248 

MELANCHOLY 200 

MILESTONES 220 

MILLIONS 1 34 

MIND-READER 202 

MINING  SHARK 182 

MINNESONG 23 

MOONRISE 84 

MULIER  .  .  .  .    203 


NANKEEN 216 

NETSIE 67 

NEUTRALIA 305 

NEW  YEAR 177 

NOVEMBER  BLUE-BIRD  142 

Now  . .  .     27 


OCTOBER 38 

ODE  TO  WATER 163 

OLD  CABIN 120 

OLD  GLORY 22 

OLD  PIONEER 79 

OLD  SOLDIER'S  RELIGION Ill 

OLD  VETERAN  151 

ORGAN-GRINDER 129 

OWL,  FORT  SCOTT 154 


INDEX.  ix 

PALINDROME 110 

PARESIS 153 

PASS 152 

PAVO 208 

PERSIMMONS 204 

PHOTO-GRAPII-U-IST 190 

PIONEER 79 

POET 201 

POLITICS : 150 

POST  AUGER 214 

PRAIRIE  CHILDREN 112 

PRAIRIE  STORM 101 

PRE-EMPTOR 29 

PRINTER'S  INK 138 

PRODIGAL,  box 183 

PROTEST 50 

PYTHIAN 60 

QUESTION 148 

QUININE  DREAM 175 

QUIVERA  —  KANSAS 61 

REAL,  THE 103 

REASON 149 

RETROSPECTIVE 178 

REQUIEM 123 

RHYME 202 

RHYMES  OF  IRONCJUILT 72 

RILEY,  J.  WHITCOMB 72 

ROMANCE 272 

SEA-RIOUS  STORY 174 

SERENADE  26 

SHADOW  52 

SHINING  MARK  . .                                                              . .  182 


x  INDEX. 

SHORT-HAIRED  POET 259 

SIEGE 161 

SONNETS 135,  136,  137 

STATE  vs.  LEWIS 222 

STOKM,  PRAIRIE 101 

SUCKER  AND  SALAMANDER 218 

SUNSET  MARMATON 31 

SUPERSTITION 136 

SWELL, 213 

TAKPEIA 35 

TEFFT  HOUSE 201 

TEN-CENT  CORN 201 

TELEGRAPH  WIRE 108 

THAT.ATTA 106 

THKB.E 162 

THRENE 105 

THREE  STATES 49 

TOBACCO  STEMMERS 53 

TO-DAY i '. . . .     88 

TRIOLET  203 

TYPE 24 

UNSOCIABLE  MILESTONES  . .  . .  220 


VETERAN 151 

VICTOR 86 

VICTORIA 64 

VIOLET  STAR 68 

VOOKHEES.  ...  .  .  200 


WAR-FARE 167 

WASHERWOMAN 9 

WATER,  ODE  TO 163 


INDEX.  xi 

WAY  OF  IT 201 

WHISPERER 160 

WHIST 114 

WHITHKB 100 

WIFE,  FIRST 186 

WILLIAM  AND  WHALE 168 

WINTER 118 

WORST  AND  BEST 135 


ZEPHYR 219 


RHYMES   OF   IRONQUILL 


THE   WASHERWOMAN'S   SONG. 

In  a  very  humble  cot, 

In  a  rather  quiet  spot, 

In  the  suds  and  in  the  soap, 
Worked  a  woman  full  of  hope ; 

Working,  singing,  all  alone, 

In  a  sort  of  undertone : 

"  With  the  Savior  for  a  friend, 
He  will  keep  me  to  the  end." 

Sometimes  happening  along, 

I  had  heard  the  semi-song, 
And  I  often  used  to  smile, 
More  in  sympathy  than  guile ; 

But  I  never  said  a  word 

In  regard  to  what  I  heard, 
As  she  sang  about  her  friend 
Who  would  keep  her  to  the  end. 

Not  in  sorrow  nor  in  glee 
Working  all  day  long  was  she, 


10  RHYMES   OF  IRONQUILL. 

As  her  children,  three  or  four, 
Played  around  her  on  the  floor ; 
But  in  monotones  the  song 
She  was  humming  all  day  long: 
"With  the  Savior  for  a  friend, 
He  will  keep  me  to  the  end." 

It 's  a  song  I  do  not  sing, 

For  I  scarce  believe  a  thing 
Of  the  stories  that  are  told 
Of  the  miracles  of  old ; 

But  I  know  that  her  belief 

Is  the  anodyne  of  grief, 

And  will  always  be  a  friend 
That  will  keep  her  to  the  end. 

Just  a  trifle  lonesome  she, 
Just  as  poor  as  poor  could  be ; 
But  her  spirits  always  rose, 
Like  the  bubbles  in  the  clothes, 
And,  though  widowed  and  alone, 
Cheered  her  with  the  monotone, 
Of  a  Savior  and  a  friend 
Who  would  keep  her  to  the  end. 

I  have  seen  her  rub  and  scrub, 
On  the  washboard  in  the  tub, 
While  the  baby,  sopped  in  suds, 
Rolled  and  tumbled  in  the  duds; 


THE    WASHERWOMAN'S  SONG. 

Or  was  paddling  in  the  pools, 
With  old  scissors  stuck  in  spools ; 
She  still  humming  of  her  friend 
Who  would  keep  her  to  the  end. 

Human  hopes  and  human  creeds 
Have  their  root  in  human  needs; 
And  I  should  not  wish  to  strip 
From  that'washerwoman's  lip 
Any  song  that  she  can  sing, 
Any  hope  that  songs  can  bring; 
For  the  woman  has  a  friend 
Who  will  keep  her  to  the  end. 


12  RHYMES   OF  IRON  QUILL. 


AN  OPEN  LETTER  TO  IRONQUILL. 

DEAR  SIR:  I  have  read  again  and  again,  with 
indescribable  pleasure  and  sadness,  your  "Washer- 
woman's Song" — pleasure,  because  it  is  really 
beautiful,  and  voices  correctly  the  joy  of  Christ's 
poor  ones ;  sadness,  because  you  say  you  are  shut 
out  from  a  hope  which,  though  not  always  so 
bright  and  cheerful,  is  worth  more  than  all  else 
this  world  affords.  You  will  pardon  me  for  ad- 
dressing you  in  this  public  manner,  for  I  know 
that  many  men  of  intellect  and  culture  occupy 
positions  not  dissimilar  to  your  own,  and  I  hope 
in  this  way  to  make  some  suggestions  which  will 
reach  both  you  and  them,  and  not  be  inappropriate 
to  the  subject,  whether  they  shall  prove  valuable 
or  useless.  Reading  between  the  lines,  I  think  I 
can  see  a  thorough  interest,  a  sort  of  inquiry,  a 
desire  to  possess  a  hope  like,  or  at  least  equal  to, 
that  of  the  heroine  of  your  song.  If  this  were  not 
so,  I  could  scarcely  interest  myself  sufficiently  to 
write  you,  for  I  confess  I  have  but  little  patience 
with  that  class  of  criticism  that  flippantly  brushes 
aside  the  mysteries  of  God,  Christ  and  immortality 
as  fit  only  for  the  contemplation  of  "  women  and 


AN  OPEN  LETTER   TO  IRONQUILL.  13 

children."  To  me  these  mysteries  are  the  pro- 
foundest  depths.  I  have  no  plummet  heavy  enough, 
nor  line  long  enough,  to  reach  the  bottom.  I  may 
push  them  aside  for  a  time,  while  other  things  en- 
gross me,  but  they  come  unbidden  again  and  again 
across  my  path.  It  is  so  with  you. 

What  is  God  ?  It  may  be  sufficient  for  some  to 
answer,  "God  is  a  spirit,  infinite,"  etc.;  but  this 
answer  gives  but  very  little  light  to  rne.  And  yet 
I  know  that  I  am  amenable  to  laws  definite  and 
certain,  with  penalties  positive  and  fixed,  which  I 
never  made  or  agreed  to  have  made,  and  which  I 
can  never  change,  even  in  the  most  minute  partic- 
ular. Whence  these  laws  ?  Is  nature,  with  its 
exactitude,  a  chance?  Who  believes  that?  I 
have  doubted  whether  there  is  a  God,  but  I  never 
disbelieved  it.  Bringing  all  my  reason  to  bear 
upon  it,  I  find  that  the  best  I  can  do  is  to  dismiss 
the  doubt  as  far  as  I  can,  and  accept  the  fact. 

Still  but  little  is  gained  practically.  The  laws 
are  known,  and  the  consequences  of  disobedience 
are  also  known.  What  matters  it  whence  the  laws 
come?  I  have  never  seen  God;  I  shall  not  see 
him  with  these  eyes.  I  do  not  understand  the 
methods  of  his  government.  They  seem  to  be 
harsh  and  severe  as  often  as  they  are  kind  and 
merciful.  Death  takes,  all  too  soon,  the  gentle 
mother  from  her  untrained  child,  as  well  as  the 


14  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

worthless  vagabond  of  whom  the  world  is  well  rid. 
You  do  not  understand  it  any  better  than  I,  but 
the  fact  remains.  To  know,  then,  that  there  is  a 
God,  is  nothing  to  us,  unless  it  be  a  foundation 
upon  which  we  can  build  something  more. 

Who  then  was  Christ  of  whom  the  washerwoman 
sung  day  after  day? 

That  such  a  man  existed  is  not  doubted.  Think 
over  all  the  best  men  you  ever  knew,  and  then  se- 
lect the  very  best,  and  tell  me  if  he  does  not  fall 
too  far  short  for  comparison.  There  are  as  good 
men  living  now  as  ever  lived  —  men  fully  equal  to 
Daniel,  Isaiah,  or  John,  and  far  better  than  Moses, 
David,  or  Peter.  Among  the  best,  Christ  stands 
alone ;  and  yet  he  was  the  boldest  impostor  that 
ever  appeared  on  the  earth,  if  he  was  not  divine. 
Christ  was  and  is  a  fact.  He  comes  across  our 
way,  and  must  be  disposed  of.  He  was  either  the 
exemplification  of  God  to  men,  or  a  most  trans- 
parent fraud  and  hypocrite.  I  have  doubted 
whether  he  was  "God  manifest  in  the  flesh,"  but  I 
never  disbelieved  it.  If  he  was  divine,  then — 

"  The  stories  that  are  told 
Of  the  miracles  of  old" 

are  easy  of  belief. 

As  to  the  proofs  of  immortality,  you  have  doubt- 
less pondered  them  well.  They  rest  partly  on  God 
and  Christ,  and  partly  on  the  unsatisfying  nature 


AN  OPEN  LETTER   TO  IRONQUILL.  15 

of  this  life.  It  is  said  that  the  average  human  life 
is  thirty-four  years.  Who  can  say  that  it  is  worth 
living  if  this  is  all?  Pleasure  and  pain,  joy  and 
sorrow,  light  and  darkness,  are  about  as  equally 
distributed  as  day  and  night.  Who  that  has  lived 
it  would  ask  to  live  it  again  in  just  the  same  way, 
and  without  any  benefit  from  the  experience  al- 
ready passed?  Infancy  prattles  into  childhood, 
childhood  glides  into  youth,  youth  leaps  into  man- 
hood, and  manhood  goes  grudgingly  into  old  age; 
and  in  each  succession  the  dreamer  anticipates  that 
the  next  will  bring  something  more  substantial  and 
satisfactory,  but  the  anticipation  is  never  realized, 
and  the  substantial  and  satisfactory  never  come. 
Do  you  not  find  it  so?  I  have  doubted  my  im- 
mortality, but  I  never  disbelieved  it. 

If  you  ask  me  why  the  truth  as  to  these  mo- 
mentous matters  is  not  more  clearly  revealed,  or 
why  we  were  not  given  reason  and  judgment  to 
fathom  and  understand  them,  I  answer,  I  do  not 
know.  But  that  does  not  dispose  of  them.  If  I 
were  to  ask  you  why  you  have  not  reason  and 
judgment  to  decide  at  once,  and  wisely,  the  ten 
thousand  questions  of  every-day  life,  your  answer 
would  be,  "I  do  not  know."  But  nevertheless 
you  go  on  reasoning,  doubting,  deciding,  and 
doubting  after  you  decide,  fortunate  indeed  if  you 
are  generally  right,  and  certain  indeed  to  be  often 
wrong. 


16  RHYMES  OF  I  RON  QUILL. 

I  have  written  thus  far  so  as  to  be  able  to  say 
that  when  you  write  "I  scarce  believe  a  thing," 
your  true  position  is,  that  you  doubt  whether  the 
woman  has  a  real  foundation  upon  which  to  build 
her  song.  And  if  I  am  right  in  this,  then  further 
to  suggest  that  there  is  nothing  unusual  or  unrea- 
sonable in  such  a  doubt.  Nay,  more:  when  rea- 
son, judgment,  and  all  other  faculties  and  means 
for  arriving  at  truth  are  imperfect,  it  seems  to  me 
that  a  perfect  faitli  is  unattainable,  and  doubt  be- 
comes a  necessity.  To  questions  like  these,  and 
many  others,  there  is  no  absolute  demonstration 
here  and  now. 

Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  the  woman  did 
not  always  have  that  serene  faith  which  you  ascribe 
to  her?  Do  you  not  know  that  she  often  won- 
dered, and  wondering,  doubted,  not,  perhaps, 
whether  there  is  a  God,  but  whether  He  is  merci- 
ful, or  even  just  ?  Do  yon  not  know  that  to  her 
it  is  an  unsolved  problem  why  she  was  left  alone 
to  support  four  children  at  one  dollar  a  day,  when 
you  could  make  twenty  dollars  a  day  at  work  less 
burdensome  and  exhaustive  ?  If  she  had  called 
on  you,  when  passing  her  door,  to  explain  this 
problem  to  her  poor  understanding,  what  could 
you  have  said  ?  She  probably  knew  it  was  as  in- 
explicable to  you  as  to  her,  and  therefore  did  not 
ask.  There  is  an  answer,  but  neither  you  nor  I 


AN  OPEN  LETTER   TO  IRONQUILL.  17 

occupy  a  plane  sufficiently  exalted  fully  to  com- 
prehend and  speak  it — "Even  so,  Father,  for  so  it 
seerneth  good  in  thy  sight." 

There  are  two  classes  of  persons  who  never  have 
doubts :  the  one,  who  see  through  these  mysteries 
at  a  glance,  or  think  they  do  ;  and  the  other,  "  who 
never  had  a  dozen  thoughts  in  all  their  lives." 

The  washerwoman  sung  away  most  of  hers  in 
her  beautiful  song ;  and  shall  we,  who  cannot  sing, 
linger  about  Doubting  Castle  until  old  Giant  De- 
spair entices  us  into  his  gloomy  prison-house? 
No  ;  for  while  we  see  that  there  is  doubt  in  reason, 
we  will  hold  that  there  must  be  reason  in  doubt, 
and  it  must  itself  be  dragged  into  the  light,  sub- 
jected to  the  severest  scrutiny,  and  made  our  help 
rather  than  our  ruin. 

Galileo  called  doubt  the  "father  of  invention." 

"Who  never  doubted  never  half  believed — where 
doubt,  there  truth  is.  It  is  its  shadow." 

One  not  given  much  to  doubt,  and  never  to  de- 
spair, has  said:  "Now  we  see  through  a  glass 
darkly."  But  there  is  a  light  —  that  light  is  Christ 
as  revealed  in  the  Scriptures.  Blot  it  out,  and  the 
darkness  is  to  me  impenetrable. 

I  have  said  nothing  of  the  unseen  help  that 
comes  to  the  weak  of  faith.  Though  mysterious, 
I  believe  in  it.  Your  heroine  knew  of  it.  The 
heathen  seem  to  grasp  it  as  if  by  instinct,  and 


18  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

have  crystallized  it  into  the  maxim,  "The  gods 
help  them  that  help  themselves."     Faith  will  grow 
if  cultivated  by  good  works,  and  the  unseen  help 
will  be  a  friend  that  will  keep  us  to  the  end. 
Yery  truly  yours, 

N.    0.    McFARLAND. 
Washington,  D.  C. 


KRITERION.  19 


KKITERIOK 

[  A  reply  to  Judge  McFarland.] 

I  see  the  spire, 

I  see  the  throng, 
I  hear  the  choir, 

I  hear  the  song; 
I  listen  to  the  anthem,  while 
It  pours  its  volume  down  the  aisle ; 
I  listen  to  the  splendid  rhyme 
That,  with  a  melody  sublime, 
Tells  of  some  far-off,  fadeless  clime- 
Of  man  and  his  finality, 
Of  hope,  and  immortality. 

Oh,  theme  of  themes  ! 

Are  men  mistaught? 
Are  hopes  like  dreams, 
To  come  to  naught? 
Is  all  the  beautiful  and  good 
Delusive  and  misunderstood? 

And  has  the  soul  no  forward  reach? 
And  do  indeed  the  facts  impeach 
The  theories  the  teachers  teach? 
And  is  this  immortality 
Delusion,  or  reality? 


20  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

What  hope  reveals 

Mind  tries  to  clasp, 
But  soon  it  reels 

With  broken  grasp. 
No  chain  yet  forged  on  anvil's  brink 
Was  stronger  than  its  weakest  link; 
And  are  there  not  along  this  chain 
Imperfect  links  that  snap  in  twain 
When  caught  in  logic's  tensile  strain? 
And  is  not  immortality 
The  child  of  ideality  2 

And  yet — at  times — 

We  get  advice 
That  seems  like  chimes 

From  paradise ; 

The  soul  doth  sometimes  seem  to  be 
In  sunshine  which  it  cannot  see ; 
At  times  the  spirit  seems  to  roam 
Beyond  the  land,  above  the  foam, 
Back  to  some  half-forgotten  home. 
Perhaps  —  this  immortality 
May  be  indeed  reality. 


THE  FISHER  MAIDEN.  21 


THE   FISHER  MAIDEN. 

Thou  maiden  with  eyes  so  dreamy, 
Thou  child  of  the  waves  and  spray, 

Thy  home  is  beside  the  ocean, 
Where  wearisome  breakers  play. 

Come,  sit  thee  down  here  beside  me 
And  list  to  the  words  I  say. 

My  heart  is  a  stormy  ocean, 
And  out  on  its  rocky  slopes 

The  turbulent  waves  are  flinging 
The  spars  and  the  keels  and  ropes :  - 

The  wrecks  of  my  aspirations, 

The  wrecks  of  my  stranded  hopes. 

My  heart  is  an  angry  ocean. 

The  gales,  as  they  corne  and  go, 
Bestrew  it  with  wreck  and  ruin, 

But  down  in  its  waves  below, 
The  pearls  and  the  rose-red  corals 

Expectantly  gleam  and  glow. 

0 1  launch  on  this  stormy  ocean, 
Thou  child  of  the  waves  and  spray ; 

Thy  boat  will  be  borne  securely, 
Until,  at  the  close  of  day, 

The  crimson  of  life's  last  twilight 
Shall  fade  in  the  west  away. 


22  RHYMES   OF  IRON  QUILL. 

OLD   GLOKY. 
(A  SONG.) 

Flag  of  a  thousand  battles, 
Beautiful  flag  of  the  free  ; 

Waving  from  lake  to  ocean, 
Waving  from  sea  to  sea ; 

'Outward  and  seaward  ever, 
Daring  the  -restless  wave  ; 

Upward  and  skyward  ever, 

Pride  of  the  true  and  the  brave. 

Old  Glory,  Old  Glory,  the  world  awaits  thy  story  / 
Float  on,  float  ever  on  o^er  land  and  sea  / 

Old  Glory,  Old  Glory,  the  world  awaits  thy  story  / 
Float  on,  float  on,  thou  emblem  of  the  free. 

Flag  of  a  thousand  battles, 
Cresting  the  billows  of  fire ; 

Whelming  established  evils, 
Raising  the  lowly  higher; 

Challenging  ancient  error, 

Silencing  tyranny  dumb, 
Gladdening  and  inspiring. 

Hope  for  the  years  to  come ! 

Old  Glory,  Old  Glory,  the  world  awaits  thy  story  / 
Float  on,  float  ever  on  o^er  land  and  seaj 

Old  Glory,  Old  Glory,  the  world  awaits  thy  story  / 
Float  on,  float  on,  thou  emblem  of  the  free. 


THE  MINNESONG.  23 


THE   MINNESONG. 

Once  a  falcon  I  possessed ; 

And  full  many  a  knight  and  vassal 
Watched  him  from  my  father's  castle, 
As,  in  gaudy  ribbon  dressed, 

He  would  seek  with  fiery  eye 
Battle  in  the  roomy  sky, 
And  return  to  be  caressed. 

Once  a  lover  I  possessed ; 

On  the  field  of  battle  knighted, 

And  at  tournaments,  delighted, 
Did  I  watch  his  fiery  crest. 

Woven  from  the  silken  strands 

By  my  own  unaided  hands, 
Was  the  baldric  on  his.  breast. 

But  one  day  my  bird  did  soar, 

When  the  sky  was  black  and  stormy ; 

And  my  knight,  whose  fondness  for  me 
Seemed  as  changeless  as  before, 

Rode  away  in  the  crusade ; 

And  as  years  successive  fade, 
They  return  to  me  no  more. 


84  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

Ah  I  In  every  land  and  tongue  — 
Loved  by  emperor  and  vassal, 
Serf  in  hovel,  knight  in  castle  — 

Ever  old  yet  ever  young, 

Sung  until  the  hours  grew  late, 
Was  the  song  of  love  and  fate 

Which  the  minnesinger  sung. 


TYPE. 

All  night  the  sky  was  draped  in  darkness  thick ; 
From  rumbling  clouds  imprisoned  lightnings  swept ; 

Into  the  printer's  stick, 

With  energetic  click, 
The  ranks  of  type  into  battalions  crept, 
Which  formed  brigades  while  dreaming  labor  slept ; 
And  ere  dawn's  crimson  pennons  were  unfurled, 
The  night-formed    columns   charged    the    waking 
world. 


THE  KANSAS  HERDER.  25 


THE   KANSAS   HERDER. 

He  rode  by  starlight  o'er  the  prairies  dim, 
While  melancholy,  with  an  aimless  whim, 
Through  trackless  grass  was  blindly  leading  him. 

And  then  he  said:   "Beneath  the  heavens'  blue 

curve, 

There  has  been  fate  misfortune  would  not  serve ; 
There  has  been  love  disaster  could  not  swerve." 

But  as  he  spake  these  words,  it  seemed  that  they 
Fell  volatile,  like  autumn  leaves,  and  lay 
Till  zephyrs  came  and  swept  them  all  away. 

And  then  he  said:   "O  words  of  love,  alasl 
As  light  as  feathers,  frangible  as  glass, 
The  last  to  come,  and  yet  the  first  to  pass." 

The  prairie,  ever  echoless,  could  make 
No  answer  back.  Impassible,  opaque, 
The  night  air  smothered  what  he  wildly  spake. 

The  prairie  larks  sang  at  the  break  of  day ; 
He  heard  them  not,  but  as  he  lifeless  lay 
He  wore  a  smile,  faint,  thoughtful,  far  away. 


26  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


THE   SERENADE. 

Through  waning  light 
The  angel  of  the  night, 

With  silver  sickle,  reaped  the  western  stars; 
Across  my  sleep, 
Dreamless  as  well  as  deep, 

There  came  a  ballad,  whose  remembered  bars 
Brought  back  to  me  a  day 
That  long  had  passed  away. 

An  old,  old  song, 

Although  forgotten  long, 
Brings  childhood  back  as  songs  alone  can  bring. 

We  see  bright  eyes, 

Behold  unclouded  skies ; 
We  re-inhale  the  fragrance  of  life's  spring ; 

While,  as  of  unseen  bird, 

Hustle  of  wing  is  heavd. 

Shall  our  last  sleep 

Eternal  stillness  keep? 
Shall  pulseless  dust  enclose  a  dreamless  soul? 

Or  shall  we  hear 

Those  songs  so  old  and  dear, 
As  mid  tempestuous  melodies  there  roll 

Upon  our  sleeping  ears 

The  choruses  of  spheres? 


THE  NOW.  27 


THE  NOW. 

The  charm  of  a  love  is  its  telling,  the  telling  that 

goes  with  the  giving ; 
The  charm  of  a  deed  is  its  doing ;  the  charm  of  a 

life  is  its  living ; 
The  soul  of  the  thing  is  the  thought ;  the  charm  of 

the  act  is  the  actor ; 
The  soul  of  the  fact  is  its  truth,  and  the  NOW  is  its 

principal  factor. 

The  world  loves  the  Now  and  the  Nowist,  and 

tests  all  assumptions  with  rigor; 
It  looks  not  behind  it  to  failing,  but  forward  to 

ardor  and  vigor; 
It  cares  not  for  heroes  who  faltered,  for  martyrs 

who  hushed  and  recanted, 
For  pictures  that  never  were  painted,  for  harvests 

that  never  were  planted. 

The  world  does  not  care  for  a  fragrance  that  never 

is  lost  in  perfuming, 
The  world  does  not  care  for  the  blossoms  that 

wither  away  before  blooming ; 
The  world  does  not  care  for  the  chimes  remaining 

unrung  by  the  ringer, 


28  RHYMES    OF  IRONQUILL. 

The  world  does  not  care  for  the  songs  unsnng  in 
the  soul  of  the  singer. 

What  use  to  mankind  is  a  purpose  that  never  shone 

forth  in  a  doer  ? 
What  use  has  the  world  for  a  loving  that  never 

had  winner  nor  woer? 
The  motives,  the  hopes  and  the  schemes  that  have 

ended  in  idle  conclusions, 
Are  buried  along  with  the  failures  that  come  in  a 

life  of  illusions. 

Away  with  the  flimsy  idea  that  life  with  a  past  is 
attended ; 

There's  Now  —  only  Now,  and  no  Past  —  there's 
never  a  past ;  it  has  ended. 

Away  with  its  obsolete  story,  and  all  of  its  yester- 
day sorrow ; 

There  's  only  to-day,  almost  gone,  and  in  front  of 
to-day  stands  to-morrow. 

And  hopes  that  are  quenchless  are  sent  us  like 

loans  from  a  generous  lender, 
Enriching  us  all   in   our  efforts,  yet  making  no 

poorer  the  sender ; 
Lightening  all  of  our  labors,  and  thrilling  us  ever 

and  ever 
With  the  ecstasy  of  success  and  the  raptures  of 

present  endeavor. 


THE  PRE-EMPTOR. 


THE  PKE-EMPTOR 

While  turning  furrows  on  a  Kansas  prairie, 

Cares  half  imaginary 
Come  trooping  through  my  brain,  then  skip  away 

Like  antelopes  at  play. 
All  day  I  watch  the  furrow-slices  slide 

Along  the  mould-board  steel ; 

But  when  night  comes  I  feel 
Along  my  brain  strange  restful  fancies  glide. 

Although  my  home  may  be  a  humble  shanty, 

With  fittings  rude  and  scanty, 
Each  night  a  kind  magician  comes  to  see, 

And  hand  the  world  to  me : 
I  see  a  grand  cathedral ;  on  a  hill 

I  note  a  Moorish  tower, 

And  orange  trees  in  flower  — 
It  is  the  graceful  city  of  Seville. 

The  evening  lights  upon  the  ripples  twinkle, 

I  hear  the  mule-bells  tinkle, 
And  organs  peal,  and  twittering  mandolins, 

As  fragrant  night  begins. 
I  see  Giralda,  in  dissolving  views, 

And  purple  shadows  fade 

In  glorious  brocade ; 
I  watch  the  twilight  of  the  Andaluz. 


30  RHYMES    OF  1RONQUILL. 

I  hand  the  world  back  to  my  necromancer, 

And  make  to  him  no  answer. 
Next  day  I  hear  the  rattle  just  the  same 

Of  clevis  and  of  hame ; 
But  when  night  comes,  emerging  from  the  dark 

I  see  the  sunrise  smile 

Upon  the  Campanile, 
And  bronze  the  flying  lion  of  St.  Mark. 

I  gaze  on  ducal  palaces  adorning 

The  Grand  Canal,  at  morning; 
I  view  the  ancient  trophies  that  have  come 

Torn  from  Byzantium ; 
I  see  what  colors  Tintoretto's  were ; 

Upon  the  mole  I  hear 

The  gaudy  gondolier, 
Then  —  hand  the  world  back  to  my  sorcerer. 

The  griefs  that  flock  like  rabbits  in  a  warren 

To  me  are  wholly  foreign. 
No  help,  no  cheer,  no  sympathy  I  ask ; 

I  'm  equal  to  my  task. 
Though  small  my  holdings  when  the  sun  may  shine, 

When  evening  comes  my  cares 

Steal  from  me  unawares, 
And  then  the  earth  I  love  so  much  is  mine. 


THE  SUNSET  MARMATON.  31 


THE  SUNSET  MAKMATON. 

O  Marmaton  !  O  Marmaton  ! 
From  out  the  rich  autumnal  west 
There  creeps  a  misty,  pearly  rest, 

As  through  an  atmosphere  of  dreams. 
Along  thy  course,  O  Marmaton, 

A  rich  September  sunset  streams. 
Thy  purple  sheen, 
Through  prairies  green, 
From  out  the  burning  west  is  seen. 

I  watch  thy  fine, 

Approaching  line, 

That  seems  to  flow  like  blood-red  wine 
Fresh  from  the  vintage  of  the  sun. 
The  spokes  of  steel 
And  blue  reveal 

The  outlines  of  a  phantom  wheel, 
While  airy  armies,  one  by  one, 

March  out  on  dress-parade. 
I  see  unrolled, 
In  blue  and  gold, 

The  guidons  where  the  line  is  made, 
And,  where  the  lazy  zephyrs  strolled 

Along  thy  verdant  esplanade, 


82  RHYMES    OF  IRON  QUILL. 

I  see  the  crested,  neighing  herd 
Go  plunging  to  the  stream. 
I  hear  the  flying,  shrieking  scream 

Of  startled  bird. 

The  Kansas  day  is  done. 


O  Harm  at  on  !     O  Marmaton  1 

Thou  hast  no  story  and  no  song ; 
Unto  the  vast 
And  empty  past, 
In  which  thy  former  life  was  cast, 

Thou  dost  not  yet  belong. 
No  mountain  cradle  hast  thou  had ; 

Along  thy  line 

No  summits  shine, 
No  cliffs,  no  gorges,  stern  and  sad, 
Stand  in  the  waning  twilight,  clad 

In  melancholy  pine. 
Thou  art  the  even-tempered  child 
Of  prairies,  on  whose  verdant  wild 
Eternities  have  smiled. 


O  Marmaton  !     O  Marmaton  I 
Be  patient,  for  thy  day  will  come, 
And  bring  the  bugle  and  the  drum. 

Thy  fame  shall  like  thy  ripples  run ; 
Thou  shalt  be  storied  yet. 


THE    SUNSET  MARMATON.  83 

Within  this  great 
And  central  State, 

The  destiny  of  some  proud  day 

Upon  thy  banks  is  set. 
Artillery  will  sweep  away 

The  orchard  and  the  prairie  home, 
And  while  the  wheat  stacks  redly  burn, 
Armies  of  infantry  will  charge 
The  lines  of  works  along  thy  marge, 
While  cavalry  brigades  will  churn 

Thy  frightened  waters  into  foam. 
The  spell  of  centuries  will  break, 
And  thou  shalt  suddenly  awake, 
And  have  a  story  that  will  make 
A  nation's  pulses  thrill. 
And  when  again  thy  banks  are  still, 
No  new  admirer  of  the  time 
Can  say  of  thee  in  feeble  rhyme : 
1 0  Marmaton  !   O  Marmaton  ! 
Thou  hast  no  story  and  no  song; 
Thou  hast  no  history  of  wrong; 
Unto  the  vast 
And  empty  past 

In  which  thy  former  life  was  cast, 
Thou  dost  not  yet  belong." 

O  Marmaton  !   O  Marmaton  ! 
The  centuries  will  pass  along, 

And  slowly,  singly,  one  by  one, 
Repeat  thy  story  and  thy  song. 


34  RHYMES    OF  IRON  QUILL. 

Thy  time  abide, 

O  Marmaton ; 
While  side  by  side, 

O  Marmaton, 

The  shadows  o'er  thy  prairies  glide, 
Thy  prairies  wide, 

O  Marmaton. 

For  nations  come  and  nations  go, 
Whither  and  whence  we  cannot  know. 

Great  days,  in  stormy  years  though  hid, 

Great  years,  dark  centuries  amid, 
Will  ever  and  anon  emerge, 
Like  life-boats  drifting  through  a  surge 
Where  billows  sweep  and  mad  winds  urge. 
Of  future  heed, 

O  Marmaton, 

Thou  hast  no  need, 

O  Marmaton. 
With  quiet  force, 
In  quiet  course, 

Still  murmur  on,  O  Marmaton. 


TARPEIA.  35 


TARPEIA. 

Upon  the  massive  walls 

The  cloudless  moonlight  falls; 
It  silver-plates  the  portico  and  fane ; 

The  tawny  Tiber  drifts 

By  castellated  cliffs, 
And  bears  its  sluggish  wavelets  to  the  main. 


Anon  the  silver  fades 

From  walls  and  colonnades; 

Clouds  scarred  with  fire  hurl  down  the  vengeful 
rain ; 

Impelled  by  gusty  waifs, 

The  tawny  Tiber  chafes, 
And  hurls  its  turbid  foam  age  to  the  main. 


The  Niobe  of  Night 

Has  left  her  azure  height ; 

No  more  she  stares  disconsolately  down ; 
No  more  the  angles  sharp 
Of  pinnacle  and  scarp, 

From  filmy  skies  imperiously  frown. 


36  RHYMES    OF  IRON  QUILL. 

Amid  the  black  and  damp, 

The  Sabines  leave  their  camp, 
Before  the  gate  their  solid  columns  go ; 

And  there  Tarpeia  stands, 

With  her  unaided  hands 
To  open  wide  the  portals  to  the  foe. 

Then  spake  the  king  to  her : 
"What  gift  shall  I  confer, 

O  maid  of  Rome,  so  daring  and  so  fair?  " 
The  Roman  maiden  spake: 
"Those  jewels  I  will  take, 

That  on  their  arms  your  Sabine  soldiers  wear." 

The  eager  columns  march 
Beneath  the  rugged  arch  ; 

They  crush  the  maid  with  bracelets  and  with  shields ; 
A  pledge  is  kept,  and  broke, 
And  in  the  din  and  smoke 

The  lurid  fire  the  doom  of  war  reveals. 

Then  comes  the  gloomy  gray, 
The  harbinger  of  day  — 

Hurled  from  the  rock  Tarpeia  finds  a  grave ; 
And  flaring  like  a  flume, 
The  Tiber  through  the  gloom 

Transfers  the  tomb  to  ocean's  cryptic  wave. 


TARPEIA.  37 

Hope's  signal  torches  shine 

Upon  life's  Esquiline, 
Its  Quirinal,  its  rocky  Palatine ; 

From  battlemented  walls, 

Life's  merry  warder  calls 
The  hourly  watches  of  the  night's  decline. 

O  Fate,  behind  a  mask 
You  promise  all  we  ask  — 

You  promise  wealth  and  happiness  and  fame ; 
And  then  you  keep,  yet  break, 
The  promises  you  make  — 

You  take  the  substance  and  you  leave  the  name. 

Some  ask  of  you  a  crown, 

A  scepter,  or  renown  ; 
Some  claim  the  jewels  that  your  bright  arm  bears  ; 

But  when  you  give,  you  fling, 

With  every  given  thing, 
The  weight  of  troubles  and  the  crush  of  cares. 

Perhaps  'twere  best  to  wait 

Behind  the  rugged  gate, 
And  ask  no  favors  from  your  ready  hand ; 

To  fight,  and  ask  no  charm 

From  your  bejeweled  arm, 
And  be  not  crushed  with  favors  we  demand. 


RHYMES   OF  IRONQUH.L. 


THE  KANSAS  OCTOBER. 

The  cheeriness  and  charm 

Of  forest  and  of  farm 
Are  merging  into  colors  sad  and  sober ; 

The  hectic  frondage  drapes 

The  nut  trees  and  the  grapes  — 
September  yields  to  opulent  October. 

The  cottonwoods  that  fringe 

The  streamlets  take  the  tinge ; 
Through  opal  haze  the  sumac  bush  is  burning; 

The  lazy  zephyrs  lisp, 

Through  cornfields  dry  and  crisp, 
Their  fond  regrets  for  days  no  more  returning. 

The  farm  dog  leaves  the  house 

To  flush  the  timid  grouse ; 
The  languid  steers  on  blue-stem  lawns  are  feeding 

The  e\ening  twilight  sees 

The  rising  Pleiades, 
While  autumn  suns  are  to  the  south  receding. 


THE   KANSAS   OCTOBER.  39 

To  me  there  comes  no  thrill 

Of  gloominess  or  chill, 
As  leaflets  fade  from  branches  elm  or  oaken, 

As  lifelessly  they  hang, 

To  me  there  comes  no  pang ; 
To  me  no  grief  the  falling  leaves  betoken. 

As  summer's  floral  gems 

Bequeath  us  withered  stems, 
And.  autumn-shattered  relics  dry  and  umber; 

So  do  these  lives  of  ours, 

Like  summer  leaves  and  flowers, 
Flourish  apace,  and  in  their  ripeness  slumber. 


40  RHYMES   OF  IRONQU1LL. 


THE  AZTEC  CITY. 

There  is  a  clouded  city,  gone  to  rest 

Beyond  the  crest 
Where  Cordilleras  mar  the  mystic  west. 

There  suns  unheeded  rise  and  re-arise; 

And  in  the  skies 
The  harvest  moon  unnoticed  lives  and  dies. 

And  yet  this  clouded  city  has  no  night  — 

Yolcanic  light 
Compels  eternal  noon-tide,  redly  bright. 

A  thousand  wells,  whence  cooling  waters  came, 

No  more  the  same, 
Now  send  aloft  a  th6usand  jets  of  flame. 

This  clouded  city  is  enchanting  fair, 

For  rich  and  rare 
From  sculptured  frieze  the  gilded  griffins  stare. 

With  level  look  —  with  loving,  hopeful  face, 

Fixed  upon  space, 
Stand  caryatides  of  unknown  race, 

And  colonnades  of  dark  green  serpentine, 

Of  strange  design, 
Carved  on  whose  shafts  queer  alphabets  combine. 


THE  AZTEC   CITY.  41 

And  there  are  lofty  temples,  rich  and  great, 

And  at  the  gate, 
Carved  in  obsidian,  the  lions  wait. 

And  from  triumphant  arches,  looking  down 

Upon  the  town, 
In  porphyry,  sad,  unknown  statesmen  frown. 

And  there  are  palace  homes,  and  stately  walls, 

And  open  halls 
Where  fountains  are,  with  voiceless  waterfalls. 

The  ruddy  fire  incessantly  illumes 

Temples  and  tombs, 
And  in  its  blaze  the  stone-wrought  cactus  blooms. 

From  clouds  congealed  the  mercury  distills, 

And  forming  rills, 
Adown  the  streets  in  double  streamlet  trills. 

As  rains  from  clouds,  that  summer  skies  eclipse, 

From  turret-tips 
And  spire  and  porch  the  mobile  metal  drips. 

No  one  that  visited  this  fiery  hive 

Ever  alive 
Came  out  but  me — I,  I  alone,  survive. 


42  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL, 


FAILURE. 

An  old  man  sat  upon  the  porch  at  evening; 
Down  in  the  west  the  clouds  were  banked  and  sullen 
No  one  was  near  him,  and  in  withered  tone 
The  old  man  spoke  unto  himself  alone : 

"My  life  has  been  a  vanity  and  failure; 
My  wife,  my  health,  my  fortune  taken  from  me ; 
While  strange  disaster,  striking  far  and  wide, 
Has  scattered  all  my  children  from  my  side. 

"And  here  I  am  alone,  without  a  dollar, 

The  hopes  of  youth  all  shattered  and  abandoned; 

My  life  a  failure  —  failure  from  the  first, 

A  vanity,  a  failure,  of  the  worst." 

Adown  the  west  he  looked  with  gloomy  sorrow ; 
And  as  he  spoke  the  sky  grew  more  tenebral. 
From  time  to  time  the  cloud-banks  lit  with  flame, 
And  fitful  zephyrs  came,  and  died,  and  came. 

Upon  his  staff  his  hands  were  clasped  and  trembling 
Upon  his  hands  his  brow  in  sorrow  rested ; 
And  the  sad  west  seemed  constantly  to  take 
A  tinge  more  dark  and  dismally  opaque. 


FAILURE.  43 

Then  all  at  once  there  seemed  to  stand  beside  him 
A  being  draped  as  if  with  phosphorescence  — 
A  form  of  beauty,  that  might  aptly  seem 
To  be  the  emanation  of  a  dream. 

So  beautiful  and  good  she  seemed,  a  mortal 
Need  but  behold  her  once  to  idolize  her; 
While  character  and  sympathy  and  grace 
Shone  like  an  inspiration  in  her  face. 

She  placed  her  hand  upon  the  old  man's  shoulder, 
And  spoke  in  words  of  magic  tone  and  feeling: 
"Why  thus,  my  father,  do  you  sadly  brood 
O'er  withered  hopes  with  which  all  life  is  strewed? 

"Your  life,  though  toilsome,  has  not  been  a  failure. 

Old  age  may  find  you  left  without  a  dollar; 

But  earth  has  blossomed  where  your  hands  have 

wrought, 
The  world  grown  wiser  where  your  lips  have  taught. 

"Those  coming  first  build  up  for  those  who  follow, 
Shaping  the  future  though  they  know  not  of  it; 
As  on  the  slow-wrought  ledges  coralline 
The  continents  of  future  times  begin. 

"Though  in  old  age  without  a  friend  or  dollar, 
He  who  has  spent  his  days  in  honest  labor 
Can  say  with  certainty,  when  they  are  done, 
His  life  has  been  a  most  successful  one. 


44  RHYMES  OF  I  RON  QUILL. 

"There  is  no  place,  except  on  earth,  for  dollars  — 

Your  scattered  children  will  be  reunited. '\ 

And  then  she  stooped  and  kissed  the  old  man's 

cheek, 
And  said,  "My  father";  but  he  did  not  speak. 

The  vision  vanished,  but  the  old  man  moved  not; 
The  grief  was  over,  and  the  failure  ended ; 
While  on  the  lifeless  face,  serene  and  fixed, 
There  seemed  a  smile  as  if  of  peace  unmixed. 

Down  in  the  west  the  banks  of  cloud  tenebral 
Lifted  and  scattered  in  the  viewless  ether ; 
And  in  their  stead,  with  mild  and  gentle  light, 
Shone  forth  again  the  jewels  of  the  night. 


THE  GEESE  AND  THE  CRANES.       45 


THE  GEESE  AND  THE  CKANE& 

It  is  sunrise.     In  the  morn 
Stands  a  field  of  ripened  corn; 
And  the  rich  autumnal  rays 
Of  those  sunny  Kansas  days 
Fill  that  field  of  ripened  corn 

With  an  opalescent  haze; 
Flocks  of  geese  and  flocks  of  cranes 
Pick  the  fallen,  golden  grains. 

It  is  noon-time  ;  and  the  rays 
Of  the  Indian  summer  blaze; 
Then  the  field  of  ripened  corn, 
Much  more  shattered  than  at  morn, 
Seems  emerging  from  the  haze. 
Fewer  geese,  but  far  more  cranes, 
Pick  the  fallen,  golden  grains. 

It  is  evening;  and  the  haze 

Of  the  short  autumnal  days, 
Like  a  mantle,  seems  to  rest 
On  the  dark  and  leaden  west. 

Shattered  is  the  field  of  maize. 

Homeward  fly  the  geese  ;  the  cranes 
Linger,  picking  golden  grains. 


RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

It  is  midnight.     Rains  and  sleet 
On  the  blackened  landscape  beat ; 

And  there  nothing  now  remains 
Of  that  field  of  standing  corn. 

But  through  darkness,  sleet,  and  rains 

Comes  the  crying  of  the  cranes, 
As  they  search  the  field  forlorn, 

Fighting  for  the  final  grains. 

Hours  the  grains,  and  life  the  field 

Where  the  golden  grains  are  had ; 

Daily  habits,  good  and  bad, 
Represent  the  geese  and  cranes 
Eating  up  the  golden  grains. 

Few  the  habits  that  are  best, 

And  they  early  go  to  rest ; 
But  through  sleet  and  midnight  rains 
Heard  the  cryings  are  of  cranes 
Fighting  for  the  final  grains. 


GLORY.  47 


GLORY. 

A  rocket  scaled  the  terraces  of  night, 
And  yet 
It  failed  to  reach  the  parapet. 

I  told  a  noble-hearted  friend  of  mine 
That  he, 
Though  great,  far  greater  yet  would  be. 

He  rose  as  did  Acestes'  arrow  rise; 
He  burned, 
And  burning,  into  ashes  turned. 

He  rose,  and  rising  blazed,  and  burned  away, 
And  yet 
He  failed  to  reach  the  parapet. 


48  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


FKAUDS. 

Ambitious,  shrewd, 
Unprincipled,  and  ever  fond  of  show, 
Hanno  of  Carthage,  centuries  ago, 

Determined  to  be  great ;  he  bought  a  brood 
Of  fledgling  parrots,  taught  them  at  his  nod 
To  scream  in  chorus :   "Hanno  is  a  god  1 " 

When  they  were  taught, 
He  had  a  hireling  place  them  on  the  street, 
As  if  for  sale  to  those  he  chanced  to  meet ; 

But  yet  by  no  one  could  the  birds  be  bought. 
Then  Hanno  passed  in  pomp,  and  gave  a  nod, 
Out  shrieked  the  parrots :   "Hanno  is  a  god  1 " 

"Cunningly  done." 

That  night  said  Hanno,  as  he  doffed  his  clothes 
Of  silk  embroidery,  to  seek  repose : 

"Distinguished  immortality  is  won; 
For  heardst  thon  not  that  superstitious  squad  . 
Catch  up  the  sentence,  'Hanno  is  a  god'? " 

A  galley  slave, 

Condemned,  went  Hanno  o'er  the  cloudy  seas 
That  hid  the  fabled  Cassiterides ; 


THREE  STATES,  < 

Wealthy  in  grief,  no  home  except  the  wave, 
Lashed  to  the  oar,  betimes  urged  by  the  rod, 
Not  very  much  a  man,  much  less  a  god. 

It  could  not  win. 

It  never  did.     Although  the  world  applauds, 
It  turns  at  last  and  punishes  its  frauds. 

Although  it  may  not  hasten  to  begin, 
True  to  itself,  when  once  it  has  begun, 
It  drives  them  to  the  galleys  one  by  one. 


THEEE  STATES. 

Of  all  the  States,  but  three  will  live  in  story : 
Old  Massachusetts  with  her  Plymouth  Rock, 
And  old  Virginia  with  her  noble  stock, 
And  Sunny  Kansas  with  her  woes  and  glory ; 
These  three  will  live  in  song  and  oratory, 
While  all  the  others,  with  their  idle  claims, 
Will  only  be  remembered  as  mere  names. 


50  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


THE  PEOTEST. 

[Written  while  the  Government  was  removing 
buried  soldiers  from  the  battle-fields  of  secession 
and  organizing  national  cemeteries.'] 

Let  them  rest,  let  them  rest  where  they  fell. 
Every  battle-field  is  sacred  ; 
If  you  let  them  stay  to  guard  it, 
They  will  veil  those  spots  with  valor 

Like  a  spell. 

All  the  soil  will  seem  implanted 
With  the  germs  of  vital  freedom ; 
Where  they  spent  their  lives  so  grandly 

Let  them  dwell ; 
Do  not  rank  them  up  in  fields, 
Under  pallid  marble  shields ; 
Let  them  rest  and  be  cherished 

Where  they  fell. 

Let  them  rest,  let  them  rest  where  they  fell : 
On  the  prairie,  in  the  forest, 
Under  cypress,  under  laurel, 
On  the  mountain,  by  the  bayou, 
In  the  dell. 


ANCHORS.  51 

Let  the  glories  of  the  battle 
Shroud  the  heroes  who  are  buried, 
Resting  where  they  fought  so  bravely, 

Long,  and  well. 
Do  not  rank  them  up  in  fields, 
Under  pallid  marble  shields; 
Let  them  rest,  let  them  rest 

Where  they  fell. 


ANCHORS. 

The  anchors  are  strong  that  hold  the  ships; 

The  wire  is  strong  that  bridges  the  fall; 
But  all  of  their  strength  must  suffer  eclipse 
Compared  with  the  words  of  a  woman's  lips, 

For  she  binds  the  man  that  has  made  them  all. 


52  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


SHADOW. 

The  day  has  been  vague,  and  the  sky  has  been 
bleak, 

Affairs  have  gone  backward  the  whole  day  long ; 
My  friends  as  I  meet  them  will  scarcely  speak, 
And  vainly  the  things  I  have  lost  I  seek. 

I  am  weary  and  sad — and  the  world  is  wrong. 

The  morrow  has  come,  and  the  sky  has  grown  clear, 
The  world  appears  righted,  and  rings  with  song; 
My  friends  as  I  meet  them  have  words  of  cheer, 
The  things  that  I  thought  I  had  lost  reappear, 
And  the  work  pushes  forward  the  whole  daylong. 

As  the  strings  of  a  harp,  standing  side  by  side, 

Are  the  days  of  sadness  and  days  of  song; 
The  sunshine  and  shadow  are  ever  allied, 
But  the  shadows  will  fade,  and  the  sunshine  bide, 
Though  to-day  may  be  dim,  and  the  world  go 
wrong. 


THE    TOBACCO   STE AIMERS.  53 


THE  TOBACCO  STEMMERS. 

Stemming  tobacco  in  a  reeking  basement, 

At  work,  with  little  left  of  hopes  or  joys, 
Were  silent  groups  of  many  shaded  faces, 
Their  blood  the  sewage  of  barbaric  races, 
Women  and  girls,  old  men  and  sober  boys. 

In  the  vast  basement  the  reluctant  ceilings 

Were  propped  by  pillars  weary  with  delay; 
The  mid-day  light  shrank  from  the  poisoned  vapors, 
While  feeble  jets  lit,  as  with  ghostly  tapers, 

The  woeful  scenes  where  life  was  worked  away. 

Looking  around,  my  angry  heart  protested. 

"How,"  I  inquired,  "are  such  conditions  made? 
What  human  laws  betray  such  soulless  phases? 
Are  these  the  victims  of  crime's  stern  ukases?" 

The  foreman  said  :   "No  ;  of  the  laws  of  trade." 

Then  of  myself  my  soul  did  ask  the  question : 
Would  I  work  here  and -earn  my  daily  bread? 

Would  I  toil  here  to  make  an  "honest  living"; 

And,  at  the  end  of  lock-stepped  hours,  forgiving, 
Go  sleepfully  and  dreamlessly  to  bed? 


54  RHYMES   OF  IRONQUILL. 

I  'm  too  discordant.     I  would  hurl  this  handful 

Of  clay  I  've  borrowed  at  the  Great  White  Throne. 
Shrieking  at  fate  I  'd  die,  like  Csesar,  standing, 
With  torch  and  steel  I  'd  take  my  chances,  landing 
Within  the  vortex  of  the  great  unknown. 

Noting  my  thoughts,  the  foreman  gave  a  signal  ; 

A  silence  fell  at  once  on  every  tongue  ! 
Then  suddenly  a  low  and  rhythmic  murmur 
Broke  forth  into  a  cadence  strong  and  firmer, 

And  in  it  joined  the  aged  and  the  young. 

The  rats  peered  from  their  holes.     The  oaken  pil- 

lars, 

Smoky  and  stained,  began  to  vibrate  white  ; 
And  still  the  song  rose  up  in  wild  derision 
Of  present  things,  and  claimed  with  strange  de- 


cson 


There  is  a  land  of  restful  peace  and  right. 

The  song  transformed  the  walls  to  pallid  onyx, 
The  rafters  changed  to  maze  of  antique  oak, 
The  sodden  floor  grew  firm  and  tesselated, 
And  in  the  stead  of  vapor,  poison-freighted, 
An  incense  rose  with  faint  and  filmy  smoke. 

My  soul  retains  that  song's  redundant  sorrow; 
There  may  be  justice  somewhere  —  who  can  tell? 


THE    TOBACCO   STEMMERS.  55 

Perhaps  the  captor  he,  who  wears  the  fetter, 
Perhaps  the  torch  and  steel  were  not  the  better, 
To  be  the  wronged,  perhaps,  were  just  as  well. 

Perhaps  these  lives  of  ours,  when  sere  and  withered, 

May  be  picked  over  in  some  juster  land, 
Torn  from  the  earthly  stem  and  there  inspected  — 
By  the  aroma  of  good  deeds  selected  — 
Perhaps  it's  so.     We  do  not  understand. 

Work  on,  sing  on,  O  toilers.     May  the  future 

Restore  the  world  to  him  "who  works  and  sings. 
May  justice  come  inflexibly  decreeing 
The  ample  right  of  every  human  being 
To  happiness  and  hope  in  present  things. 


RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL, 


CHAOS. 

I  've  seen  an  ice-clad  river  leave  its  banks, 
And  tear  through  hills  of  time-enduring  rock; 

I  've  seen  grand  squadrons  charging  ranks  on  ranks, 
And  felt  the  planet  tremble  with  the  shock. 

I  've  seen  red  navies  with  their  ribs  of  oak 
Lashed  into  splinters  by  the  frantic  main  ; 

I've  watched  proud  cities  wander  off  in  smoke; 
I  've  seen  autumnal  ruin  sweep  the  plain. 

I  've  stood  at  midnight  on  the  rocky  height 
That  bars  the  purple  meadows  of  the  west ; 

I  've  seen  the  silent  empress  of  the  night 

Sail  slowly  onward,  splendoring  crest  on  crest. 

But  never  have  I  seen,  in  earth  or  air, 

A  method  or  a  principle.     I  scan 
An  unplanned  chaos,  shaping  here  and  there 

The  greatness  and  the  littleness  of  man. 


THE  BIRD   SONG.  57 


THE   BIRD   SONG. 


In  the  night  air  I  heard  the  woodland  ringing, 
I  heard  it  ring  with  wild  and  thrilling  song; 

Hidden  the  bird  whose  strange  inspiring  singing 
Seems  yet  to  float  in  liquid  waves  along, — 


Scciris  yet  to  float  with  many  a  quirk  and  quaver, 
With  quirks  and  quavers  and  exultant  notes, 

As  through  the  air,  with  sympathetic  waver, 

Down  through  the  songs  the  falling  starlight 
floats. 

Speaking,  I  said:   "O  bird  with  songs  sonorous, 
O  bird  with  songs  of  such  sonorous  glee, 

Sing  me  a  song  of  joy,  and  in  the  chorus, 
In  the  same  chorus  I  will  join  with  thee. 

"The  songs  that  others  sing  seem  but  to  sadden, — 
Seem    but    to    sadden,  —  those    which    I    have 

heard, — 
Sing   me    a    song   whose    gleesome    notes    will 

gladden  — 
Sing  me  a  song  of  joy."     Then  sang  the  bird : 


58  RHYMES    OF  1RONQU1LL. 

"There  is  a  land  where  blossoming  exotic, 
The  amaranths  with  fadeless  colors  glow ; 

Where  notes  of  birds  with  melodies  chaotic 
In  tangled  songs  forever  come  and  go.    . 

"There  skies  serene  and  bland  will  bend  above  ns, 

And  from  them  blessings  like  the  rain  will  fall ; 

There  those. fond  friends  that  we  have  loved  shall 

love  us, 

In  that  bright  land  those  friends  shall  love  us 
all." 

The  singer  ceased,  the  rhapsody  sonorous 

No  more  through  starlit  woodland  sped  along; 

And  as  it  ceased,  my  heart  refused  the  chorus, 
Refused  to  join  the  chorus  of  the  song.    • 

V 

"Ah,  no" — I  said,  "thou  bird  in  branches  hidden, 
Hope's  garlands  bright   grief's   fingers    slowly 

twine ; 

Grief  slowly  twines  from  blooms  that  spring  un- 
bidden— 
That  spring  unbidden  as  our  lives  decline. 

"Grief  present  now  proves  naught  of  the  eternal ; 

Grief  proves  no  future  with  good  blessings  rife  — 
With  blessings  rife  and  futures  blandly  vernal ; 

Facts  show  no  logic  in  a  future  life," 


THE  BIRD   SONG.  59 

And  then  I  said:    "False  is  thy  song  sonorous — 

Thy  song  that  floats  from  starlit  woodland  dim ; 

When  we  are  gone  and  flowers  are  blooming  o'er 

us  — 

When   man   has  gone,  there  ends  the  all  with 
him." 


Still  sang  the  bird  :   "There  skies  shall  bend  above 

us, 

And  sprinkle  blessings  like  the  rains  that  fall; 
And  those  we  loved  —  who  loved  us  not  —  shall 

love  us, 
In  that  bright  land  shall  love  us  most  of  all." 


Then  came  a  song-burst  of  bewildering  splendor, 
That  rolled  in  waves  through  forest  corridors; 
Up  soared  the  bird,  fain  did  my  hopes  attend  her, 
.  And  hopes  and  songs  were  lost  amid  the  stars. 


Now  all  day  long,  wpon  my  mind  intruding, 

There  comes  the  echo  of  that  last  night's  song; 
Grief    claims    the    wreck   on   which   my  mind    is 

brooding, 

Hope  claims  the  facts  which  logic  claimed  so 
long. 


60  RHYMES   OF  I  RON  QUILL. 

Who  cares,  O  bird,  for  skies  that  bend  above  us? 

Who  cares  if  blessings  like  the  rain  shall  fall, 
If  only  those  who  loved  us  not  shall  love  us  — 

In  that  bright  future  love  us  most  of  all? 

Let  logic  marshal  ranks  of  facts  well  stated, 
It  leads  them  on  in  vain  though  brave  attacks ; 

For,  looking  down  from  bastions  crenelated, 
Hope  smiles  derision  at  assaulting  facts. 


THE  PYTHIAN. 

I  arn  the  sibyl  of  the  right  divine, 

Who  spoke  the  sayings  of  the  Delphic  shrine; 

In  after  years  this  apothegm  recall:        « 
"Marry  the  man  who  loves  thee  most  of  all;" 

And  who  he  is  thou  needest  never  guess 

Who  chatters  more  is  he  who  loves  the  less. 


Q  U1VERA — KANSAS.  61 


QUIYERA— KANSAS. 

1542-1892. 

In  that  half-forgotten  era, 
With  the  avarice  of  old, 
Seeking  cities  he  was  told 
Had  been  paved  with  yellow  gold, 

In  the  kingdom  of  Quivera — 

Came  the  restless  Coronado 

To  the  open  Kansas  plain, 

With  his  knights  from  sunny  Spain ; 

In  an  effort  that,  though  vain, 
Thrilled  with  boldness  and  bravado. 

League  by  league,  in  aimless  marching, 
Knowing  scarcely  where  or  why, 
Crossed  they  uplands  drear  and  dry, 
That  an  unprotected  sky 

Had  for  centuries  been  parching. 

But  their  expectations,  eager, 
Found,  instead  of  fruitful  lands, 
Shallow  streams  and  shifting  sands, 
Where  the  buffalo  in  bands 

Roamed  o'er  deserts  dry  and  meager. 


62  RHYMES   OF  IRONQUILL. 

Back  to  scenes  more  trite,  yet  tragic, 

Marched  the  knights  with  armor'd  steeds ; 
Not  for  them  the  quiet  deeds ; 
Not  for  them  to  sow  the  seeds 

From  which  empires  grow  like  magic. 

Never  land  so  hunger-stricken 

Could  a  Latin  race  re-mold ; 

They  could  conquer  heat  or  cold — 

Die  for  glory  or  for  gold — 
But  not  make  a  desert  quicken. 

Thus  Quivera  was  forsaken  ; 
And  the  world  forgot  the  place 
Through  the  lapse  of  time  and  space. 
Then  the  blue-eyed  Saxon  race 

Came  and  bade  the  desert  waken. 

And  it  bade  the  climate  vary ; 
And  awaiting  no  reply 
From  the  elements  on  high, 
It  with  plows  besieged  the  sky — 

Vexed  the  heavens  with  the  prairie. 

Then  the  vitreous  sky  relented, 

And  the  unacquainted  rain 

Fell  upon  the  thirsty  plain, 

Whence  had  gone  the  knights  of  Spain, 
Disappointed,  discontented. 


QUIVER  A  — KANSAS.  63 

Sturdy  are  the  Saxon  faces, 

As  they  move  along  in  line ; 

Bright  the  rolling-cutters  shine, 

Charging  up  the  State's  incline, 
As  an  array  storms  a  glacis. 

Into  loam  the  sand  is  melted, 

And  the  blue-grass  takes  the  loam, 
Round  about  the  prairie  home ; 
And  the  locomotives  roam 

Over  landscapes  iron-belted. 

Cities  grow  where  stunted  birches 
Hugged  the  shallow  water-line ; 
And  the  deepening  rivers  twine 
Past  the  factory  and  mine, 

Orchard  slopes  and  schools  and  churches. 

Deeper  grows  the  soil  and  truer, 
More  and  more  the  prairie  teems 
With  a  fruitage  as  of  dreams ; 
Clearer,  deeper,  flow  the  streams, 

Blander  grows  the  sky  and  bluer. 

We  have  made  the  State  of  Kansas, 
And  to-day  she  stands  complete  — 
First  in  freedom,  first  in  wheat; 
And  her  future  years  will  meet 

Ripened  hopes  and  richer  stanzas. 


64  RHYMES   OF  IRONQUILL. 


VICTORIA:    A   KANSAS   GREETING. 

(Jubilee,  June  22,  1897.) 

Live  on,  O  Queen  ;  beyond  the  western  seas 
A  mighty  kindred  nation  not  thine  own 
Views  with  delight  the  halo  'round  thy  throne. 

Live  on,  live  ever  on ;  the  centuries 

Like  ships  will  come  across  a  shoreless  main, 
Laden  with  benedictions  on  thy  reign. 


DEWEY. 

O,  Dewey  was  the  morning 

Upon  the  first  of  May, 
And  Dewey  was  the  Admiral 

Down  in  Manila  Bay ; 
And  Dewey  were  the  Regent's  eyes, 

"Them  "  orbs  of  royal  blue  ! 
And  Dewey  feel  discouraged  ? 

I  Dew  not  think  we  Dew. 

Published  Topeka  Daily  Capital,  morning  of  May  3,  1898. 


A   HOLY   WAR.  65 

A  HOLY  WAR 
[The  Eusso -Turkish  campaign.] 

On  the  south  is  seen  an  empire  — 
Mosque  and  minaret,  in  frenzy, 
To  the  ruler  of  the  "faithful" 

Send  their  influence  and  riches ; 
And  the  holy  shrine  of  Mecca 
Pours  out  gold  and  absolution, 
While  it  speeds  the  Prophet's  children 

To  the  hospitals  and  ditches. 

On  the  north  a  Christian  empire 
In  the  name  of  Christ  is  acting. 
Mobs,  to  gain  a  benediction, 

Rally  round  a  bishop's  miter; 
And  they  use  the  church's  treasure, 
In  the  holy  name  of  Jesus, 
While  they  march  away  His  children 

To  the  vulture  and  the  niter. 

We  may  hope  to  see  an  era 
That  has  fewer  orphan  children  — 
That  objects  to  shrieking  bugle 

And  the  sight  of  blazing  village; 
When  religion,  in  the  future, 
Shall  refuse  to  be  the  agent 
By  which  merciless  ambition 

Furthers  schemes  of  public  pillage. 


66  RHYMES   OF  IRONQU1LL. 


THE   CRUSADES. 

The  one  I  love  so  much  sits  by  my  side  — 

Sits  by  my  side  and  listens  as  I  read ; 
We  little  care  how  o'er  the  prairies  wide 
The  wintry,  zero-loving  tempests  glide, 
As  one  by  one  the  fire-lit  hours  recede. 

In  one  of  mine  I  hold  her  little  hands 
And  read  to  her  of  wars  in  distant  lands. 

I  read  to  her  of  times  long  passed  away, 

That  shine  like  jewels  in  the  wild  Crusades ; 
That  light  up  cities  crumbling  in  decay; 
That  out  of  darkness  bring  the  glare  of  day  — 
A  glare  that  soon  to  greater  darkness  fades. 
I  read  to  her  of  princes  and  of  seers, 
Of  cruelties,  of  sufferings,  of  tears. 

I  read  to  her  of  hermits  and  of  kings, 

Of  Conrad,  Tailored,  Baldwin  and  Behmond  ; 
I  read  to  her  of  bravery  that  springs 
From  wild  fanaticism,  whose  strong  wings 

Take,  in  their  sweep,  this  world  and  the  beyond. 
And,  as  I  read,  the  gusty  tempests  rage, 
As  if  in  sympathy  with  every  page. 


NETS  IE.  67 


NETSIE. 

Happiness  or  heartache? 

Either  it  may  be, 
Blue-eyed  little  daughter 

Sitting  on  my  knee. 
Happiness  or  heartache, 

Either  it  may  be. 

Heartache  or  heartbreak 

If  it  sadly  be, 
Blue-eyed  little  daughter 

Sitting  on  my  knee, 
Though  I  may  be  buried 

I  will  grieve  with  thee. 

When  the  ache  is  ended, 

We  can  go  and  see 
Our  old  home  in  Lyra, 

Where  the  rainbows  be ; 
You  will  have  a  world  of  fun 

When  you  go  with  me. 


RHYMES   OF  IRONQUILL. 


THE  VIOLET  STAR 

"I  have  always  lived,  and  I  always  must," 
The  sergeant  said  when  the  fever  came ; 

From  his  burning  brow  we  washed  the  dust, 
And  we  held  his  hand,  and  we  spoke  his  name. 

"Millions  of  ages  have  come  and  gone," 
The  sergeant  said  as  we  held  his  hand  — 

"They  have  passed  like  the  mist  of  the  early  dawn 
Since  I  left  my  home  in  that  far-off  land." 

We  bade  him  hush,  but  he  ga^e  no  heed  — 
"Millions  of  orbits  I  crossed  from  far, 

Drifted  as  drifts  the  cottonwood  seed  ; 
I  came,"  said  he,"" from  the  Yiolet  Star. 

"Drifting  in  cycles  from  place  to  place  — 
I'm  tired,"  said  he,  "and  I'm  going  home 

To  the  Yiolet  Star,  in  the  realms  of  space 
Where  I  loved  to  live,  and  I  will  not  roam. 

"For  I've  always  lived,  and  I  always  must, 
And  the  soul  in  roaming  may  roam  foo  far; 

I  have  reached  the  verge  that  I  dare  not  trust, 
And  I  'm  going  back  to  the  Violet  Star." 


THE    VIOLET  STAR.  69 

The  sergeant  was  still,  and  we  fanned  his  cheek ; 

There  came  no  word  from  that  soul  so  tired ; 
And  the  bugle  rang  from  the  distant  peak, 

As  the  morning  dawned  and  the  pickets  fired. 

The  sergeant  was  buried  as  soldiers  are; 

And  we  thought  all  day,  as  we  marched  through 

the  dust : 
"His  spirit  has  gone  to  the  Violet  Star — 

He  always  has  lived,  and  he  always  must." 


70  RHYMES   OF  1RONQUILL. 


TO  THE  CAENIVAL  QUEEN. 

Not  all  the  tints  of  the  summer  skies, 

Nor  the  blushes  of  alien  flowers, 
Nor  the  sheen  on  the  lakes  of  Paradise, 
Where  the  evening  goes,  and  the  sunset  lies, 
Can  equal  this  queen  of  ours. 

Not  all  of  the  lovers  that  yet  have  been 

In  the  ages  so  far  apart, 
Are  as  loyal  as  we,  who  here  begin 
In  our  welcome  way,  to  enfold  her  in 

The  corolla  of  our  heart. 

And  ever  and  ever  a  fairy  prize, 

In  a  prison  that  has  no  bars, 
We  will  hold  her  while  eternity  dies 
Or  as  long  as  the  glistening  centuries 

Shall  drip  from  the  silent  stars. 


CHILDHOOD.  71 


CHILDHOOD. 

It  passed  rn  beauty, 

Like  the  waves  that  reach 
Their  jeweled  fingers 

Up  the  sanded  beach. 

It  passed  in  beauty, 

Like  the  flowers  that  spring 
Behind  the  footsteps 

Of  the  winter  king. 

It  passed  in  beauty, 

Like  the  clouds  on  high, 

That  drape  the  ceilings 
Of  the  su miner  sky. 


72  RHYMES    OF  IRON  QUILL. 


THE  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

I've  allus  held  — till  jest  of  late  — that  Poetry  and  me 

Got  on  best,  not  to  'sociate  —  that  is,  most  poetry ; 

But  t'other  day  my  Son-in-law,  who  'd  ben  in  town  to  mill. 

Fetched  home  a  present,  like,  fer  Ma :  —  The  Khymes  of  Ironquill. 

He  used  to  teach  ;  and  course  his  views  rnnks  over  common  sense ; 
That's  biased  me  till  I  refuse  'most  all  he  rickcommends  : 
But  Ma  she  read  and  read  along,  and  cried,  like  women  will, 
About  "  The  Washerwoman's  Song  "  in  Rhymes  of  Ironquill. 

And  then  she  made  me  read  the  thing,  and  found  my  specs  and  all ; 
And  I  jest  leant  back  there,  I  jing  I  my  cheer  against  the  wall. 
And  read  and  read,  and  read  and  read,  all  to  myse'f,  ontil 
I  lit  the  lamp  and  went  to  bed  with  Khymes  of  Ironquill  I 

I  propped  myse'f  up  there,  and  — Dnrn  I— I  never  shet  an  eye 
Till  daylight  I  —hogged  the  whole  concern,  tee- total,  mighty  nigh  I— 
I  'd  sigh  sometimes,  and  cry  sometimes,  er  laugh  jest  fit  to  kill  — 
Clean  captured,  like,  with  thein-air  Rhymes  of  that-air  Ironquill  I 

Read  that-un  'bout  old  "  Marmaton"  'at  hain  't  ben  ever  sized 
In  song  before  — and  yit  's  rolled  on  jest  same  as  'postrophized  !  — 
Putt  me  in  mind  of  our  old  crick  at  Freeport ;  and  the  mill ; 
And  Hinchman's  Ford—  till  jest  home-sick  !  them  Rhymes  of  Iron- 
quill I 

Read  that-nn  too—  'bout  game  o'  whist— and  likenin'  Life  to  fun 
Like  that  — and  playin'  ontyer  fist,  however  cards  is  run  : 
And  them  " Tobacker-Stemmers'  Song"  they  sung  with  sich  a  will, 
Down  'mongst  the  misery  and  wrong,  O  Rhymes  of  Ironquill  t 

And  old  "  John  Brown,"  who  broke  the  sod  of  Freedom's  fallor  field 
And  sowed  his  heart  there,  thankin'  God  pore  slaves  'ud  git  the 

yield  !-- 

Rained  his  last  tears  for  them,  and  us,  to  irrigate  and  till 
A  crop  of  songs  as  glorious  as  Rhymes  of  Ironquill  I 

And,  sergeant,  died  there  in  the  War,  'at  talked,  out  of  his  head  — 
He  went  "  back  to  the  Violet  Star,"  I  '11  bet  1  —jest  like  he  said  1  — 
Yer  wars  kin  riddle  bone  and  flesh,  and  blow  out  brains,  and  spill 
Life-blood  —  but  SOMKPIN'  lives  on,  fresh  as  Rhymes  of  Ironquill  I 
JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 


EL  MORAN.  73 


EL  MOKAN. 

Crossing  the  orbit  of  Aldebaran, 
And  sixteen  orbits  to  Taurus  Kho, 

As  dashes  a  boat  through  a  chain  of  whirlpools 
Into  a  slumbering  lake  below  ; 

Thence,  through  a  chaos  of  constellations, 

I  came  at  last  to  an  open  place, 
And  saw  in  the  distance  the  waves  of  ether 

Breaking  in  foam  on  the  cliffs  of  space. 

Vacantly  gazing,  I  felt  a  presence — 
A  viewless  presence,  without  a  word. 

A  soul  was  beside  me ;  I  felt  a  question ; 
Nevertheless  not  a  sound  I  heard. 

"Whence  are  you  coming,  and  whither  going, 

And  who,"  I  thought,  "can  you  really  be? " 
An  interval  passed,  as  of  hesitation ; 
This  was  the  answer  it  thought  at  me : 

"Losing  my  life  in  a  mine  explosion 
A  week  ago,  in  the  planet  Mars, 
I  thought  I  would  look  up  a  new  location ; 
Are  you  acquainted  among  the  stars?" 


74  RHYMES   OF  IRONQUILL. 

"No,"  I  replied;  "I  was  killed  by  lightning 

On  yester  morn,  in  Hindostan ; 
I  visit  our  old  and  ancestral  homestead, 
Back  in  the  nebula  El  Moran." 

Both  of  us  talked  of  the  past  and  present ; 

We  watched  the  asteroids  weaving  lace, 
And  berylline  billows  of  surging  ether 

Pounding  the  limitless  cliffs  of  space. 


IOLINE.  75 


IOLINE. 

(The  poet's  muse — an  imitation!) 

One  black  evening  in  October 

All  the  world  seemed  sad  and  sober, 

And  a  doom 

Dark  and  dismal 
Shrouded  all  .life's  colors  prismal, 
And  before  me  yawned  abysmal 

Gulfs  of  gloom. 

Said  I  bitterly  :   I  only 

Of  the  world  am  sad  and  lonely, 

I  alone 

Drain  the  chalice; 
All  the  angels  bear  me  malice, 
There  is  love  in  cot  and  palace  — 

None  my  own. 

That  dark  night  I  turned  a  traitor 
To  myself  and  my  Creator, 

And  I  said : 

Be  it  ended,  • 

Hope  may  make  existence  splendid, 
But  without  it,  unattended  — 

Better  dead. 


76  RHYMES  OF  I  RON  QUILL. 

Then  a  something  seemed  to  chide  mo 
From  the  darkness  there  beside  me, 

In  a  tone 

Uttered  clearly: 
"You  have  spoken  insincerely; 
There  are  those  who  love  you  dearly, 

Though  unknown." 


Who  are  you,  and  whence  your  visit? 
Turning  gruffly,  said  I :  Is  it 

The  unseen 

To  awaken? 

Said  the  voice:  "You're  mistaken; 
It  is  loline  —  forsaken 

loline," 


When  I  heard  the  sentence  uttered, 
In  bewilderment  I  stuttered 

A  remark 

Somewhat  grimly, 
As  a  form,  freshly,  primly, 
Grew  and  ripened  in  the  dimly 

Lighted  dark. 


IOLINE.  77 

Yes,  the  artless  little  comer, 
Like  a  musk  rose  in  the  summer 

Seemed  to  bloom ; 

And  her  forehead 

Shook  back  tresses  that  seemed  borrowed 
From  the  winter  night,  or  quarried 

Out  of  gloom. 


With  a  smile  so  arch  and  airy, 
To  my  side  came  the  fairy, 
Like  a  queen 

Blithe  and  bloomy. 
"Let  us  stroll,"  said  she  to  me; 
Yes,  said  I,  for  I  'm  gloomy, 
loline. 


Ah !  she  told  me  gorgeous  stories 
Of  her  home,  and  the  glories 

Of  the  zone 

Where  it  stretches. 
And  she  hummed  me  little  sketches 
Of  immortal  music,  such  as 

Sweeps  the  Throne. 


78  RHYMES   OF  IRONQUILL. 

All  my  gloominess  was  banished ; 

Then  the  moon  rose,  and  she  vanished  — 

Yes,  my  queen 

Had  departed, 

But  she  kissed  me  ere  she  started ; 
And  she  left  me  sunny  hearted 

And  serene. 

To  that  land  of  sun  and  blossom 
She  has  built  a  bridge  of  gossamer 

And  gold ; 

And  I  've  traveled 
It  in  dreaming,  and  unraveled 
Dismal  doubts,  whereon  I  caviled 

Days  of  old. 

Now  no  evening  of  October 
Finds  me  ever  sad  or  sober ; 
All  the  world 

Seems  a  palace; 

There  are  none  who  bear  me  malice, 
And  afar  away  the  chalice 

I  have  hurled. 

JULY,  1875. 


THE   OLD   PIONEER.  79 


THE  OLD  PIONEER. 

Where  are  they  gone?     Where  are  they- 

The  faces  of  my  childhood? 
I  've  sought  them  by  the  mountains, 

By  the  rivers,  by  the  canyons ; 
I  have  called  upon  the  prairie, 

I  have  called  upon  the  wildwood : 
"Oh,  give  me  back!   Oh,  give  me  back 

The  faces  of  my  childhood  — 
The  boys  and  girls, 

My  playmates,  my  companions  I" 


The  days  of  early  .childhood 

Have  a  strange,  attractive  glimmer, 
A  lustrous,  misty  fadelessness, 

Half  seen  and  yet  half  hidden, 
As  of  isles  in  distant  oceans, 

Where  the  shattered  moonbeams  shimmer, 
Concealing  half,  disclosing  half, 

With  rapturing,  fracturing  glimmer, 
The  realms  to  which 

Our  visits  are  forbidden. 


RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

Now  vainly  am  I  calling 

On  the  mountains  and  the  canyons ; 
And  vainly  from  the  forest, 

From  the  river  or  the  wildwood, 
Do  I  ask  the  restoration 

Of  my  playmates,  my  companions. 
No  voice  returns  from  mountain-sides, 

From  forest  or  from  canyons ; 
Forever  gone, — 

The  faces  of  my  childhood. 


JOHN  BROWN.  81 


JOHN  BKOWN. 

States  are  not  great 

Except  as  men  may  make  them ; 

Men  are  not  great  except  they  do  and  dare. 

But  States,  like  men, 
Have  destinies  that  take  them  — 
That  bear  them  on,  not  knowing  why  or  where. 


The  WHY  repels 
The  philosophic  searcher — 
The  WHY  and  WHERE  all  questionings  defy, 

Until  we  find, 

Far  back  in  youthful  nurture, 
Prophetic  facts  that  constitute  the  WHY. 


All  merit  comes 
From  braving  the  unequal; 
All  glory  comes  from  daring  to  begin. 

Fame  loves  the  State 
That,  reckless  of  the  sequel, 
Fights  long  and  well,  whether  it  lose  or  win. 


82  RHYMES   OF  IRONQUILL. 

Than  in  our  State 
No  illustration  apter 
Is  Been  or  found  of  faith  and  hope  and  will. 

Take  up  her  story : 
Every  leaf  and  chapter 
Contains  a  record  that  conveys  a  thrill. 

And  there  is  one 

Whose  faith,  whose  fight,  whose  failing, 
Fame  shall  placard  upon  the  walls  of  time. 

He  dared  begin  — 
Despite  the  unavailing, 
He  dared  begin,  when  failure  was  a  crime. 

When  over  Africa 
Some  future  cycle 
Shall  sweep  the  lake-gemmed  uplands  with  its  surge ; 

When,  as  with  trumpet 
Of  Archangel  Michael, 
Culture  shall  bid  a  colored  race  emerge ; 

When  busy  cities 
There,  in  constellations, 
Shall  gleam  with  spires  and  palaces  and  domes, 

With  marts  wherein 
Is  heard  the  noise  of  nations ; 
With  summer  groves  surrounding  stately  homes  — 


JOHN  BROWN.  83 

There,  future  orators 
To  cultured  freemen 
Shall  tell  of  valor,  and  recount  with  praise 

Stories  of  Kansas, 
And  of  Lacedsemon — 
Cradles  of  freedom,  then  of  ancient  days. 

<»    From  boulevards 
O'erlooking  both  Nyanzas, 
The  statured  bronze  shall  glitter  in  the  sun, 
With  rugged  lettering: 

"JoHN  BEOWN  OF  KANSAS: 

HE  DARED  BEGIN; 

HE  LOST, 

BUT,    LOSING,    WON." 


84  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


LIFE'S  MOONRISE. 

No  sunrise — no  noon  —  no  sunset; 

On  the  prairie,  like  a  pall, 
All  day  hangs  the  storm,  and  from  it 

Unhappiness  seems  to  fall. 

At  evening  the  sky  grows  cloudless, 
And  the  moon  shines  round  and  clear ; 

While  pare  as  the  smiles  of  angels 
The  glittering  stars  appear. 

The  red  deer  and  the  primrose 
And  the  prairie-larks  are  gay, 

Till  night,  with  its  moonlit  beauty, 
Is  merged  in  the  broad,  bright  day. 

Some  lives  have  a  cloudy  sunrise, 
With  a  noon-tide  clear  and  bright ; 

And  some  have  a  day  of  sunshine, 
With  rainy  and  cheerless  night. 

My  life  had  been  sad  and  rainy 
Through  its  long  and  somber  day ; 

At  last  came  the  placid  moonrise 
And  scattered  the  clouds  away. 


LIFE'S  MOONRISE.  85 

I'm  now  in  life's  moonrise  living; 

And  although  the  sun  has  set, 
There  come  to  me  no  suggestions 

Of  sorrow  or  vain  regret. 

I  'm  seeing  new  worlds  and  planets 

In  the  open  evening  sky ; 
My  soul  feels  a  wild,  new  daring 

As  whisper  the  night-winds  by. 

I  'm  giving  no  thought  to  troubles, 

Nor  the  past  that  flew  away  ; 
But  hoping  the  moonlit  present 

May  merge  in  the  broad,  bright  day. 


RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 


VICTOR. 

He  was  a  hero,  fighting  all  alone  ; 

A  lonesome  warrior — never  one  more  brave, 

Discreet,  considerate,  and  grave. 

He  fought  some  noble  battles ;  but  he  gave 
No  voice  to  fame,  and  passed  away  unknown. 

So  grandly  to  occasions  did  he  rise, 

So  splendid  were  the  victories  he  planned, 
That  all  the  world  had  asked  him  to  command 
Could  it  his  native  valor  understand : 

He  fought  himself,  and,  winning,  gained  the  prize. 


"FEAR   YE  HIM."  87 


"FEAR  YE   HIM." 

I  fear  Him  not,  nor  yet  do  I  defy. 

Much  could  He  harm  me,  cared  He  but  to  try. 

Much  could  He  frighten  me,  much  do  me  ill, 
Much  terrify  me,  but  —  He  never  will. 

The  soul  of  justice  must  itself  be  just; 

Who  trembles  most  betrays  the  most  distrust. 

So,  plunging  in  life's  current  deep  and  broad, 
I  take  my  chances,  ignorant  —  unawed. 


88  RHYMES   OF  JRONQUILL. 


TO-DAY. 

Work  on,  work  on  — 

Work  wears  the  world  away ; 
Hope  when  to-morrow  comes, 

But  work  to-day. 

Work  on,  work  on — 

Work  brings  its  own  relief ; 
He  who  most  idle  is 

Has  most  of  grief. 


DECORATION  DAY. 


DECORATION  DAY. 

[Recited  at  Arlington] 

It  is  needless  I  should  tell  you 

Of  the  history  of  Sumter, 
How  the  chorus  of  the  cannon  shook  its  walls; 

How  the  scattered  navies  gathered, 

How  the  iron-ranked  battalions 
Rose  responsive  to  the  country's  urgent  calls. 

It  is  needless  that  I  tell  you, 

For  the  time  is  still  too  recent, 
How  was  heard  the  first  vindictive  cannon's  peal ; 

How  two  brothers  stopped  debating 

On  a  sad,  unsettled  question, 
And  referred  it  to  the  arbitrating  steel. 

It  is  needless  that  I  tell  you 

Of  the  somber  days  that  followed  — 
Stormy  days  that  in  such  slow  succession  ran; 

Of  Antietam,  Chickamauga, 

Gettysburg,  and  Murfreesboro', 
Or  the  rocky,  cannon-shaken  Rapidan. 


90  RHYMES  OF  JRONQUILL. 

It  was  not  a  war  of  conquest : 

It  was  fought  to  save  the  Union, 
It  was  waged  for  an  idea  of  the  right ; 

And  the  graves  so  widely  scattered 

Show  how  fruitful  an  idea 
In  peace,  or  war,  may  be  in  moral  might. 

Brief  indeed  the  war  had  lasted, 
Had  it  raged  in  hope  of  plunder ; 

Briefer  still,  had  glory  been  its  only  aim. 
But  its  long  and  sad  duration 
And  the  graves  it  has  bequeathed  us, 

Other  motives,  other  principles  proclaim. 

Need  I  mention  this  idea, 

The  invincible  idea, 
That  so  seemed  to  hold  and  save  the  Nation's  life ; 

That,  resistless  and  unblenching, 

Undisheartened  by  disaster, 
Seemed  the  soul  and  inspiration  of  the  strife? 

This  idea  was  of  freedom  — 

Was  that  men  should  all  stand  equal, 
That  the  world  was  interested  in  the  fight ; 

That  the  present  and  the  future 

Were  electors  who  had  chosen 
Us  to  argue  and  decide  the  case  aright, 


DECORATION  DAY.  91 

And  the  theories  of  freedom 

Those  now  silent  bugles  uttered 
Will  reverberate  with  ever-growing  tones ; 

They  can  never  be  forgotten, 

But  will  work  among  the  nations 
Till  they  sweep  the  world  of  shackles  and  of  thrones. 

It  is  meet  that  we  do  honor 

To  the  comrades  who  have  fallen  — 

Meet  that  we  the  sadly  woven  garlands  twine. 
Where  they  buried  lie  is  sacred, 
Whether  'neath  the  Northern  marble 

Or  beneath  the  Southern  cypress-tree  or  pine. 

Nations  are  the  same  as  children  — 

Always  living  in  the  future, 
Living  in  their  aspirations  and  their  hopes ; 

Picturing  some  future  greatness, 

Reaching  forth  for  future  prizes, 
With  a  wish  for  higher  aims  and  grander  scopes. 

It  is  better  for  the  people 

That  they  reach  for  an  ideal, 
That  they  give  their  future  nations  better  lives; 

Though  the  standard  be  unreal, 

Though  the  hope  meets  no  fulfillment, 
Though  the  fact  in  empty  dreams  alone  survives. 


92  RHYMES   OF  IRON  QUILL. 

If  the  people  rest  contented 

With  the  good  they  have  accomplished, 
Then  they  retrograde  and  slowly  sink  away. 

Give  a  nation  an  ideal, 

Some  grand,  noble,  central  project; 
It,  like  adamant,  refuses  to  decay. 

Tis  the  duty  of  the  poet, 
'Tis  the  duty  of  the  statesman, 

To  inspire  a  nation's  life  with  nobler  aims; 
And  dishonor  will  o'ershadow 
Him  who  dares  not,  or  who  falsely 

His  immortal-fruited  mission  misproclaims. 


THE  DEFAULTER.  93 

*  THE  DEFAULTER. 

CHICAGO. 

"I'll  cross  the  sea,"  he  said,  "and  the  future  will 

be  sunny, 

The  storms  no  more  will  rave ; 
I'll  cross  the  sea,"  he  said,  "and  with  other  peo- 
ple's money 
Be  free  and  gay  beyond  the  ocean  wave." 

PARIS. 

"I  '11  move  again,"  he  said,  "to  Naples,  Rome,  or 

Yenice. 

I  will  no  more  divide 
With  arrogant  detectives ;    I'll   live  no  more  in 

menace  : 
The  Apennines  shall  separate  us  wide." 

ROME. 

"I  '11  cross  the  sea,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  melan- 
choly ; 

"I  can  divide  no  more. 
I've  failed  of  being  happy — have  failed  of  being 

jolly, 
And  justice  waits  me  on  a  distant  shore." 


94  RHYMES   OF  IRON  QUILL. 

CHICAGO. 

"I  Jm  here,"  he  said,  "for  justice.    Let  the  sentence 

be  impartial; 
By  it  I  will  abide. 
For  my  wife  is  broken-hearted,  and  I  can  no  longer 

marshal 
Any  of  my  scattered  children  to  my  side." 

4OLIET. 

"No  one,"  he  said,  "in  chasing  after  Happiness 

has  found  her: 
But  if  she  comes  at  all, 
She  comes  uncalled,  unbidden,  with  a  sunny  halo 

round  her — 
Visits  alike  the  hovel  and  the  hall." 


THE  CHILD  OF  FA  TE.  95 


THE  CHILD  OF  FATE. 

I  am  the  child  of  fate. 

What  need  it  matter  me 

Where  I  shall  buried  be  ! 
Death  cometh  soon  or  late, 

Whether  on  land  or  sea; 

What  may  it  matter  me! 

Of  what  hope  hangs  upon 
We  can  no  insight  get ; 

Blindly  fate  leads  us  on, 
Storming  life's  parapet. 

That  which  our  course  impels, 

Naught  of  the  future  tells. 

Whether  upon  the  land, 
Whether  upon  the  strand, 
What  may  it  matter  me 
Where  I  shall  buried  be ! 
Death  cometh  soon  or  late, 
All  are  the  sport  of  fate. 

What  should  it  matter  me, 
Falling  as  others  fell, 
Shattered  by  shot  or  shell ; 


90  RHYMES   OF  IRONQU1LL. 

Either  on  land  or  sea, 

Wrecked  on  the  foaming  bar, 
Crashed  in  the  shattered  car. 

Whether  by  Arctic  cliffs, 
Where  the  ice-current  drifts, 

Where  the  bleak  night-wind  sobs, 
Where  the  black  ice-tide  throbs ; 
What  though  my  bark  may  be 
Sunk  in  some  sullen  sea ! 

Each  has  his  work  and  way, 
Each  has  his  part  and  play, 
Each  has  his  task  to  do, 
Both  of  the  good  and  true. 
Though  thou  art  grave  or  gay, 
Be  thou  yet  brave  and  true. 

Work  for  the  right  and  just, 

With  an  intrepid  trust ; 
Then  it  need  matter  thee 
Naught,  if  thou  buried  be 

Either  on  land  or  strand, 
Either  'iieath  soil  or  sea. 


LEG OU SIN  AT. 


LEGOUSIN  AI. 
[.From  the  Greek  of  Anacreon.~\ 

The  women  say : 

"Anacreon,  you  are  old; 

For,  taking  up  a  mirror,  you  behold 
The  locks  of  rosy  youth  how  scattered  they." 

But  as  a  care 

It  is  not  unto  me 

How  old  am  I,  how  few  my  locks  may  bo, 
So  long  as  youth's  young  spirit  still  is  there. 


98  RHYMES   OF  IRON  QUILL. 


THE  KANSAS  DUG-OUT. 

Peering  from  a  Kansas  hillside,  far  away, 
Is  a  cabin  made  of  sod,  and  built  to  stay ; 
Through  the  window-like  embrasure 
Pours  the  mingled  gold  and  azure 
Of  the  morning  of  a  gorgeous  Kansas  day. 

Round  the  cabin,  clumps  of  roses  here  and  there 
With  a  wild  and  welcome  fragrance  fill  the  air ; 

And  the  love  of  heaven  settles 

On  their  open  pink-lined  petals, 
As  the  angels  come  and  put  them  in  their  hair. 

Blue-eyed  children  round  the  cabin  chase  the  day; 
They  are  learning  life's  best  lesson  —  how  to  stay, 

To  be  tireless  and  resistful ; 

And  the  antelope  look  wistful, 
And  they  want  to  join  the  children  in  their  play. 

Fortune -wrecked,    the    parents   sought   the   open 

West, 
Leaving  happy  homes  and  friends  they  loved  the 

best; 

Homes  in  cities  bright  and  busy 
That  responded  to  the  dizzy, 
To  the  whirling  and  tumultuous  unrest. 


THE  KANSAS  DUG-OUT.  99 

Oft  it  happens  "unto  families  and  men 

That  they  need   must  touch  their  mother  earth 

again ; 

Rising,  rugged  and  reliant, 
Like  Antaeus,  the  old  giant, 

Then  they  dare  and  do  great  things  —  and  not  till 
then. 

As  around  his  neck  the  arms  of  children  twine, 

Says  the  father :   "  Courage,  children,  never  pine ; 

Though  the  skies  around  you  blacken, 

Do  not  yield  —  the  gules  will  slacken, 

Faith  and  fortitude  will  win,  O  children  mine." 

Happy  prairie  children!     Time  with  rapid  wings 
Golden  trophies  to  the  earnest  worker  brings. 

As  the  Trojan  said  :   "Durafo 

Vosmet  rebus  et  servate"* —  [things." 

"Hold  yourselves  in  hand  for  higher,  nobler 


,  I,  207. 


100  RHYMES    OF  IRON  QUILL. 


WHITHER 

Beside  a  pool  where  curved  a  Kansas  brook, 
A  youthful  fisherman  stood,  brown  and  tan ; 

A  lump  of  lead  held  down  a  baited  hook, 
And  as  I  watched  the  eager  little  man, 
From  thought  to  thought  some  strange  sugges- 
tions ran. 

Perhaps  the  soul,  as  if  imprisoned  here, 

Is  weighted  down  with  lump  of  heavy  clay, 

Beneath  the  ocean  of  the  atmosphere ; 

Fain  would  it  rise,  and  yet  perforce  must  stay 
Deep  in  the  night,  yet  which  we  think  the  day. 

At  certain  times  a  power  seems  to  draw, 
And  then  we  feel  as  if  we  rose,  and  light 

Appears  to  us ;  and  then  some  unknown  law 
Is  felt  to  pull  us  backward  in  our  flight, 
And  hold  us  to  the  bottom  of  the  night. 


THE  PRAIRIE  STORM. 


THE  PRAIRIE  STORM. 

With  the  daylight  came  the  storm  ; 

And  the  clouds,  like  ragged  veils, 
Trailed  the  prairie  until  noontide, 

Borne  by  vacillating  gales  ; 
And  the  red  elms  by  the  streamlets 
Dripped  upon  the  wild-plum  thickets, 
And  the  thickets,  on  the  crickets 
And  the  quails. 

Wet  and  sodden 
Lay  the  prairie  grass  untrodden. 


Through  the  dismal  afternoon 

Held  the  banks  of  cloud  aloof, 
As  the  smoke  in  frontier  cabins 
Hugs  the  rafters  in  the  roof. 
Broke  the  clouds  and  ceased  the  dripping, 
And  the  red  elms  by  the  streamlets 
Caught  the  fading  evening  beamlets 
That,  in  proof, 

Gave  the  token 
That  the  summer  storm  was  broken. 


102  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

With  a  nimbus  like  a  saint 

Rose  the  white  moon  in  the  east ; 
And  the  grass  all  rose  together 
As  the  guests  do  at  a  feast ; 
And  the  prairie  lark  kept  singing 
All  the  night  long,  and  the  stirring 
And  the  whizzing  and  the  whirring 
Still  increased  ; 

Till  all  sorrow 
Yielded  to  the  brilliant  morrow. 


THE  REAL.  103 


THE  EEAL. 

They  say 
A  certain  flower  that  blooms  forever 

In  sunnier  skies, 

[s  called  the  amaranth.     They  say  it  never 
Withers  away  or  dies, — 
I  never  saw  one. 


They  say 
A  bird  of  foreign  lands, —  the  condor, 

Never  alights, 

But  through  the  air  unceasingly  will  wander, 
In  long,  aerial  flights, — 
I  never  saw  one. 


They  say 
That  in  Egyptian  deserts,  massive, 

Half  buried  in  the  sands, 
Swept  by  the  hot  sirocco,  grand,  impassive, 
The  statue  of  colossal  Memnon  stands, — 
I  never  saw  it. 


104  RHYMES    OF  1RONQUILL. 

They  say 
A  land  faultless,  far  off,  and  fairy, 

A  summer  land,  with  woods  and  glens  and 

glades, 
Is  seen  where  palms  rise  feathery  and  airy, 

And  from  whose  lawns  the   sunlight  never 
fades, — 

I  never  saw  it. 

They  say 
The  stars  make  melody  sonorous 

While  whirling  on  their  poles; 
They  say  through  space  an  interstellar  chorus 
Magnificently  rolls, — 

I  never  heard  it. 

Now  what 
Care  I  for  amaranth  or  condor, 

Colossal  Mernnon,  or  the  fairy  land, 
Or  for  the  songs  of  planets  as  they  wander 
Through  arcs  superlatively  grand?  — 
They  are  not  real. 

Hope's  idle 
Dreams  the  Heal  vainly  follows, 

Facts  stay  as  fadeless  as  the  Parthenon ; 
While  fancies,  like  the  smoky-tinted  swallows, 

Flit  gaily  mid  its  arches  and  are  gone. 


THRENE.  105 


THKENE. 

I  stood  on  the  oxygen  cliffs  of  the  nebula  El  Tri- 
une, 
I  saw  in  the  distance  below  the  triangular  planet 

of  Threne, 

The  triclinate  planet  of  Threne, 
The  beautiful  planet  of  Threne. 
It  sang  in  a  happy  contralto  a  sort  of  a  polka  tune, 
And  left  in  its  three-cornered  orbit  a  tracing  of 
yellow  sheen. 

O,  marvelous  planet  of  Threne,  as  you  swing*  in 

your  triple  arc, 
And  whirl,  and  in  whirling  repeat  at  each  node 

that  contralto  song, 
That  happy  contralto  song, 
That  strange  and  majestic  song. 
It  makes  me  regret  to  be  living  far  off  in  the  dis- 
tant dark, 

Where    the    dismal,    diminutive    earth   is    tardily 
creeping  along. 


100  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 


THALATTA. 


The  gale  blew  from  France,  and  a  wasted  moon 
Arose  on  the  rim  of  a  friendless  sky. 

I  stood  by  the  mast  while  the  midnight  waves 
Invaded  the  deck  with  an  angry  cry. 

In  tempest  and  swell  as  the  steamer  rolled, 

It  tunneled  its  way  through  the  foam  and  blast ; 

Like  ravenous  wolves  were  the  hollow  waves 
That  hungered  for  me  as  they  hurried  past. 

There  has  come  a  new  dream  to  me, 

It 's  a  dream  —  it 's  a  dream  of  the  sea  — 

A  dream  of  the  midnight  sea. 


II. 


O  horrible  billows  —  O  horrible  night ! 

The  stoker,  at  home  in  the  hell  below, 
Was  shoveling  coal  like  a  demon,  stripped, 

While  furnaces  roared  with  a  fervent  glow. 


THALATTA.  107 

When  midnight  is  come,  and  my  prairie  home 
Is  lit  by  the  moon's  unassuming  glance, 

When  ravenous  waves  and  unsteady  deck 

Are  set  in  the  past,  with  the  gales  of  France, 

Every  once  in  a  while  to  me 

Comes  a  dream,  a  strange  dream  of  the  sea  — 

A  dream  of  the  midnight  sea. 

III. 

I  think  that  I  may  in  a  thousand  years 
Remember  the  earth  in  its  giddy  course 

Still  tunneling  on  through  the  cosmic  waves, 
And  breasting  the  storms  of  electric  force. 

And" then  I  may  think:  O  the  dreadful  time 
I  rode  on  the  earth  through  the  stellar  sea; 

O  horrible  night  when  the  gales  of  fate 

And  billows  of  force  were  a-whelming  me  ! 

Perhaps  there  may  come  to  me 
Strange  dreams  of  the  stellar  sea  — 
Of  the  interstellar  sea. 


108  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


THE  TELEGRAPH    WIRE. 

West  from  the  boiling  Missouri,  turbid  with  pul- 
verized granite, 

West  o'er  the  orchards  and  farms  asleep  in  the 
hammock  of  autumn, 

West  o'er  the  upland  uprising,  russet  with  wheat- 
land  close  shaven, 

West  o'er  the  yellowish  shales  and  scattering 
prairie-dog  cities. 


Why  in  the  moonlight,  O  wire,  so  sadly,  so  con- 
stantly moaning? 

Brightly  in  Argentine's  smelters  murmurous  cruci- 
bles bubble ; 

Proudly  uprears  in  Topeka  the  bronze  of  the  dome 
and  the  tholus  ; 

Gaily  Pueblo  appears  with  rolling-mills  crowning 
the  mesa. 


"  Come,  O  my  brother,  come  back ;  our  mother  is 

grieving  and  dying." 
"Come,  O   my  lover,   come  back,  and  I,  if  you 

come,  will  forgive  you." 


THE  TELEGRAPH  WIRE.  109 

"Come,  O  my  daughter,  come  back;  I  wait,  and 

must  live  till  I  see  you." 
"Come,  O  my  husband,  come  back;  the  past,  if 

you  come,  is  forgotten." 


Moan  on,  O  wire ;  you   are    bearing  burdens  of 

hearts  that  are  breaking  ; 
Kindly  the  zephyrs  of  Kansas  absorb  your  seolian 

sorrow. 
Listening,  listening  long,  the  prairie  dog  goes  to 

his  burrow, 
Telling  the  owl  and  the  snake  the  woes  of  the  gods 

and  their  sadness. 


110  RHYMES    OF  1RONQUILL. 


THE  PALINDROME. 

Sat  a  gray  and  thoughtful  soldier 

By  his  summer  Kansas  home; 
Came  and  spoke  his  freckled  nephew, 
"Uncle,  what 's  a  palindrome?  " 

Smoked  the  soldier  then  in  silence, 

Wistfully  he  looked  afar, 
Then  at  last  he  spoke  and  answered : 
"Raw  was  J  ere  I  saw  waR." 

Spoke  the  nephew:   "War  and  armies 
Threaten  not  our  Kansas  home  ; 

Do  not  fight  those  battles  over  — 
Tell  me,  what 's  a  palindrome." 

Slow  replied  the  grizzled  soldier, 

"Raw  was  I  ere  I  saw  waR. 
Read  it  backward,  read  it  forward, 
That  is  what  the  words  are  for." 

"Life  's  a  palindrome,  my  nephew  — 

You  may  run  it  either  way ; 
Life,  from  either  age  or  childhood, 

Couues  and  goes  from  clay  to  clay.' 


THE   OLD   SOLDIER'S  RELIGION.  Ill 

It  is  but  a  funny  riddle 

With  a  simple  thread  of  truth; 
We  can  read  it  up  from  childhood, 

Then  can  read  it  back  to  youth. 

Honest  acts  and  honest  thinking 
Pin  your  future  faith  upon  ; 
Working  with  your  best  endeavor, 

Let 
"No  evil  deed  live  oN." 


THE  OLD  SOLDIER'S  RELIGION. 

The  Stars  and  Stripes  have  stood  by  me 
In  hours  of  darkest  peril ; 

I  worship  them  as  good  enough 

For  me  in  hours  of  need. 

I  know  that  they  will  live  beyond 

All  present  forms  of  creed, 
Because  all  present  forms  of  creed 
Are  sere  and  drear  and  sterile. 


112  RHYMES    OF  IRONQUILL. 


PRAIRIE  CHILDREN. 

• 

This  is  the  duchess  of  Lullaby  Land, 

Lying  asleep  on  the  velvety  sward ; 
That  is  an  indigo  flower  in  her  hand, 
Typical  emblem  of  rank  and  command, 
Symbol  heraldic  of  lady  and  lord. 

That  is  her  brother  asleep  at  her  side; 

He  is  a  duke ;  and  his  little  red  hand 
Grapples  the  ragged  old  rope  that  is  tied 
Into  the  collar  of  Rover,  the  guide  — 

Rover,  the  hero  of  Lullaby  Land. 

Fishes  come  out  of  the  water  and  walk, 

Chipmunks  play  marbles  in  Lullaby  Land. 
Rabbits  rise  up  on  the  prairies  and  talk, 
Goslings  go  forward  and  giggle  and  gawk  — 
Everything  chatters  and  all  understand. 

After  awhile  he  will  sail  on  the  sea  — 

Little  red  duke  on  the  prairie  asleep; 
Daring  the  shot  and  the  shell,  he  shall  be 
Admiral,  fighting  for  you  and  for  me  — 
Flying  the  flag  o'er  the  dangerous  deep. 


PRAIRIE  CHILDREN.  113 

Down  at  the  Lido,  where  billows  are  blue ; 

Back  through  the  vineyards  to  Florence  and 

Rome ; 

That  is  our  duchess,  whom  both  of  us  knew  ; 
That  is  her  husband,  so  tender  and  true, 

Taking  her  far  from  her  babyhood  home. 

Children  at  play  on  the  prairies  to-day, 
Bravely  to-morrow  will  enter  the  race, 

Trusting  the  future  whose  promises  say, 
"Courage  and  effort  will  work  out  a  way, 

Fortune  and  fame  are  not  matters  of  place." 


1H  RHYMES   OF  IRON  QUILL. 


WHIST. 

Hour  after  hour  the  cards  were  fairly  shuffled 
And  fairly  dealt,  bnt  still  I  got  no  hand ; 

The  morning  came,  and  with  a  mind  unruffled 
I  only  said,  "I  do  not  understand." 

Life  is  a  game  of  whist.     From  unseen  sources 
The  cards  are  shuffled  and  the  hands  are  dealt; 

Blind  are  our  efforts  to  control  the  forces 

That,  though  unseen,  are  no  less  strongly  felt. 

I  do  not  like  the  way  the  cards  are  shuffled, 
But  yet  I  like  the  game  and  want  to  play ; 

And  through  the  long,  long  night  will  I,  unruffled, 
Play  what  I  get  until  the  break  of  day. 


AD  ASTRA  PER  ASPERA. 


AD  ASTRA  PER  ASPERA. 


A  rnotto  appears 

On  the  seal  of  a  State  — 

Of  a  State  that  was  born 

While  the  terror  was  brewing; 
A  motto  defying 
The  edicts  of  fate  ; 

A  motto  of  daring, 

A  legend  of  doing. 

A  perilous  past 

And  a  cavernous  gloom 
Hud  enshrouded  the  State 
In  its  humble  beginning; 

But  courage  of  soul, 

In  repelling  the  doom, 
Of  failure  made  hope, 
And  of  losing  made  winning. 

Through  scars  to  the  stars, 
Through  the  pall  of  the  past, 

Through  the  gloom  to  the  gleam 
Rose  the  State  from  the  peril ; 


116  RHYMES   OF  IRONQUILL. 

Then  gleam  became 'gloom, 
And  the  laurels  at  last 
Were  .scattered  in  ashes 
Repugnant  and  sterile. 

But  Kansas  shall  shine 
In  the  stories  and  songs 
That  are  told  and  are  sung 
Of  undaunted  reliance. 
The  gloom  yet  will  gleam, 
And  the  evils  and  wrongs 
Will  shrivel  and  crisp 
In  the  blaze  of  defiance. 

The  future  shall  bury 
The  now —  as  the  woe 
On  the  field  of  a  battle 
By  verdure  is  hidden ; 
And  hope  will  return 
Like  the  harvests  that  grow 
Where  cannon  have  plowed 
And  the  cavalry  ridden. 


BLAINE  OF  MAINE.  117 


ELAINE  OF  MAINE. 

(1884.) 

Lashed  to  his  flagship's  mast, 
Old  Farragut,  through  iron-guarded  bays, 
Through  fleets  of  fire,  through  batteries  ablaze, 

By  shot  and  shell  harassed, 
While  wreck  and  ruin  seemed  to  block  his  way, 
And  splintered  spars  spread  sprinkling  on  the 

spray, 

Guiding  his  fleet  throughout  the  frightful  fray, 
Into  the  harbor  passed  ; 

And  sullon  forts  grew  calm  and  still 
Beneath  the  victor's  iron  will, 
Subdued  and  crushed  at  last. 

O  Elaine  !  amid  the  glare 
Of  party  ruin,  take  the  ship  of  state ; 
We  bind  thee  to  its  mast,  thou  statesman  great ; 

And  thine  must  be  the  care 
To  guide  it  on  through  rocks  and  reefs  that  vex 
The  changing  channel  with  a  thousand  wrecks. 
And  though  the  surge  shall  sweep  its  sacred 
decks, 

We  know  thou  wilt  not  spare 
Thy  efforts  to  conduct  it  by 
The  rocks  and  reefs  that  seem  to  lie 

Around  it  everywhere. 


118  RHYMES   OF  IRONQUILL. 


WINTER. 

The  sleet 
Will  beat, 
And  the  snow 
Will  blow, 
And  the  rain 
Will  drain 
From  the  plain 

So  sadly ; 

And  the  night  come  down 
So  bleak  and  brown, 
While  the  blast 
Shrieks  past 
So  fast 

And  madly. 


HEARTS.  119 


HEAKTS. 

As  long  as  the  meadows  may  bloom,  and  as  long 

as  the  brooks  may  run, 
The  brain  will  forever  be  winning,  as  brains  have 

forever  won, 
Commanding  the  battle  of  life  till  the  battle  of  life 

is  done. 

No,  no,  the  idea  is  error ;  the  brain  never  wins  the 

tight; 
Its  contests    are    seldom    decided,  its    reasonings 

rarely  right ; 
The  multitude  watches  its  failures  and   ridicules 

with  delight. 

But,  long  as  the  grass  may  be  growing,  and  long 

as  the  waters  run, 
The  heart  will  forever  be  winning,  as  hearts  have 

forever  won, 
Commanding  the  battle  of  life  till  the  battle  of  life 

is  done. 


120  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


THE  OLD  CABIN. 

Upon  the  prairie,  as  the  sun  is  sinking, 

I  see  the  cabin  of  a  pioneer ; 

The  clapboard  roof  is  lagging  to  the  rear, 
The  walls  reject  their  inartistic  chinking. 

The  broken  porch  hangs  in  unwilling  bondage, 
The  truant  chimney  never  has  returned, 
And  in  the  fire-place,  where  the  embers  burned, 

Defiant  sunflowers  wave  their  thoughtless  f  rondage. 

The  waning  sunlight  seems  to  flash  and  flicker, 
And  through  the  empty,  open-hearted  door, 
And  vacant  windows,  seems  to  run  and  pour 

Upon  the  prairie  like  a  crimson  liquor. 

With  bloom  of  June  the  spongy  air  is  swollen ; 

The  pompous  zephyrs  slowly  swagger  by ; 

Then  comes  a  purple  tremor  in  the  sky, 
And  twilight's  silence — nature's  semicolon. 

Here  years  ago,  when  civil  war  had  ended, 
A  soldier  came,  and  with  him  came  a  bride; 
He  once  had  charged  up  Lookout  Mountain's 

side, 

And  felled   proud   oaks  when   Nashville  was  de- 
fended. 


OLD  CABIN.  121 

So  when  he  came  to  Kansas,  strong  and  fearless, 
Fate  had  no  terrors  which  he  dare  not  face ; 
A  soldier  in  the  vanguard  of  the  race, 

He  did  his  share  to  make  his  country  peerless. 

Here  now  is  ruin  ;  yet,  among  the  brambles, 
A  melancholy  rose  peeps  at  the  sky, 
And  shudders  at  the  footsteps,  passing  by, 

Of  vagrant  horses  on  their  aimless  rambles. 

Upon  those  pegs,  above  the  chimney  mantel, 
A  sluggish  muzzle-loading  musket  slept ; 
Within  the  porch,  upon  that  hook,  was  kept 

An  army  saddle  with  a  rawhide  cantle. 

Among  the  groves,  that  by  the  streamlets  nestle, 
No  more  is  heard  the  noise  of  freighter's  camp  ; 
But  in  its  stead  the  strange,  gigantic  tramp 

Of  railway  trains  upon  the  rumbling  trestle. 

No  more  are  deer  inquisitively  peering 

Through    brown    November    at   the    chimney's 

smoke ; 
No  more  the  vicious  stroke  and  counter-stroke 

Of  warring  buffalo  arrest  the  hearing. 

No  more  the  cyclone,  nor  the  hungry  locust, 
Imprint  a  shadow  on  the  summer  sky ; 
The  drouth  has  gone  —  and  there  have  vanished 

by 

The  ills  that  on  the  lovers  once  were  focused. 


122  RHYMES    OF  IRONQUILL. 

1  knew  them  well — the  wife  and  he  now  slumber 
Beside  the  ripples  of  the  Marmaton  ; 
Both  gone  away,  where  years  roll  on,  and  on, 

And  ever  on,  and  cares  no  more  encumber. 

"Love  lives  again,"  observed  the  Hebrew  rabbin  — 
"Love  lives  again  in  worlds  succeeding  worlds." 
And  so  it  was.  Six  boys  and  four  bright  girls 

Bade  Hope  "Good  morning"  in  that  humble  cabin. 

From  cabins  such  as  these  come  sturdy  natures, 
Who  give  proud  inspiration  to  a  state, 
Who  fight  its  battles  and  decide  its  fate, 

Who  make  its  courts  and  shape  its  legislatures. 

Good-bye,  old  cabin ;  time's  relentless  rigor 
May  grind  you  up  at  last  to  shapeless  dust ; 
But  faithfully  have  you  performed  your  trust, 

And  sheltered  manly  worth  and  moral  vigor. 


REQUIEM.  123 


KEQUIEM. 

I  am  rambling  with  the  rivers, 
I  arn  falling  with  the  rain, 

I  am  waving  in  the  woodland, 
Tarn  growing  in  the  grain. 

I  am  marching  in  the  zephyr, 
I  am  rimpling  in  the  rill, 

I  am  blooming  on  the  prairie  — 
But  I  live  in  Kansas  still. 


124  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 


HISTORY. 

Over  the  infinite  prairie  of  level  eternity, 

Flying  as  flies  the  deer, 
Time  is  pursued  by  a  pitiless,  cruel  oblivion, 

Following  fast  and  near. 

Ever  and  ever  the  famishing  coyote  is  following 

Patiently  in  the  rear  ; 

Trifling  the  interval,  yet  we  are  calling  it  "His- 
tory " — 

Distance  from  wolf  to  deer. 


ELUSION.  125 


ELUSION. 

The  prairie  grasses  whispered  in  my  ear 
From  year  to  year, 

Strange  melodies  whose  burning  verses  stole 
Into  my  soul, 

Strange  songs  which  ever  and  anon  would  come 

And  sing  themselves  to  me  and  hum  and  hum 
Beyond  control. 

Yet  when  I  tried  to  capture,  word  for  word, 

The  songs  I  heard, 
The  written  verses  lost,  it  seemed  to  me, 

The  pictured  melody. 
I  had  not  said  that  which  I  tried  to  say  — 
The  music  had  in  some  uncertain  way 

Eluded  me. 


126  RHYMES   OF  IRON  QUILL. 


THE  BLIZZARD. 

The  fiddler  was  improvising;  at  times  he  would 

cease  to  play, 
Then  shutting  his  eyes  he  sang  and  sang  in  a  wild, 

ecstatic  way ; 
Then  ceasing  -his  song  he  whipped  and  whipped 

the  strings  with  his  frantic  bow, 
Releasing  impatient  music   alternately  loud   and 

low ; 
Then  writhing  and  reeling  he  sang  as  if  he  were 

dreaming  aloud, 
And  wrapping  the  frenzied  music  around  him  like 

a  shroud ; 
And  this  was  the  strange  refrain,  which  he  sang  in 

a  minor  key, 

"No  matter  how  long  the  river,  the  river  will  reach 
the  sea." 

It  was  midnight  on  the  Cimarron,  not  many  a  year 
ago, 

The  blizzard  was  whirling  pebbles  and  sand,  and 
billows  of  frozen  snow ; 

He  sat  on  a  bale  of  harness,  in  a  dug-out  roofed 
with  clay, 

The  wolves  overhead  bewailed,  in  a  dismal,  pro- 
tracted way, 


THE  BLIZZARD.  127 

They  peeped  down  the  'dobe  chimney,  and  quar- 
reled, and  sniffed  and  clawed  ; 

But  the  fiddler  kept  on  with  his  music,  as  the 
blizzard  stalked  abroad, 

And  time  and  again  that  strange  refrain  came  forth 
in  a  minor  key, 

"No  matter  how  long  the  river,  the  river  will  reach 
the  sea." 

Around  him,  on  boxes  and  barrels,  un  charmed  by 

the  fiddler's  rune, 

The  herders  were  drinking,  and  betting  their  car- 
tridges on  vantoon ; 

And  once  in  a  while  a  player,  in  spirit  of  reckless  fun, 
Would  join  in  the  fiddler's  music,  and  fire  off  the 

fiddler's  gun. 
An  old  man  sat  on  a  sack  of  corn  and  stared  with 

a  vacant  gaze  ; 
He  had  lost  his  hopes  in  the  Gypsum  Hills,  and  he 

thought  of  the  olden  days. 
The  tears  fell  fast  when  the  strange  refrain  came 

forth  in  a  minor  key, 
"No  matter  how  long  the  river,  the  river  will  reach 

the  sea." 

At  morning  the  tempest  ended,  and  the  sun  came 

back  once  more : 
The  old,  old  man  of  the  Gypsum  Hills  had  gone 

to  the  smoky  shore. 


128  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

They  chopped  him  a  grave,  in  the  frozen  ground 

where  the  morning  sunlight  fell, 
With  a  restful  look  he  held  in  his  hand  an  invisible 

asphodel ; 
They  filled  up  the  grave,  and   each  herder  said, 

"Good-bye,  till  the  judgment  day." 
But  the  fiddler  stayed,  and  he  sang  and  played  as 

the  herders  walked  away, — 
A  requiem   in    a    lonesome   land,  in  a  mournful 

minor  key  — 
"No  matter  how  long  the  river,  the  river  will  reach 

the  sea." 


THE    ORGAN-GRINDER.  129 


THE  ORGAN-GRINDER 

I  'm  ignorant  of  music,  but  still,  in  spite  of  that, 
I  always  drop  a  quarter  in  an  organ-grinder's  liat. 
I  welcome  on   the    pavement    that   old,  familiar 

noise, 
Around  which  gaily  gather  all  the  little  girls  and 

boys; 
While  solemn,  sad  and  hungry  stands,  a-turning  at 

the  crank, 
A  nobleman  from  Europe,  of  attenuated  rank. 

The  nobleman  looks  sad,  but  gives  with  organistic 

glee, 

A  ballad  of  old  Ireland,  the  jewel  of  the  sea  — 
"The  most  distracted  country  that  we  have  ever 

seen  ; 
They  're  hangin'  men  and  women  there  for  wearin' 

of  the  green  — 

For  wearin'  of  the  green,  for  wearin'  of  the  green  ; 
They  're  hangin'  men  and  women  there  for  wearin' 

of  the  green." 

And  then  I  think  of  those  who  went  a-marching 

off  with  me, 
Who  claimed  a  home  in  Ireland,  the  jewel  of  the 


130  RHYMES  OF  IRONQU1LL. 

My  comrades  and  my  messmates,  none  braver  or 

more  true ; 
Holding  aloft  the  stars  and  stripes,  a-wearing  of 

the  blue. 
Alas !  far  down  in  Dixie  their  many  graves  are 

seen ; 
Beneath  the  grassy  hillocks  they  are  wearing  of 

the  green. 

Immortal  little  island  I     No  other  land  or  clime 
Has  placed  more  deathless  heroes  in  the  Pantheon 
of  time. 

Anon  the  noble  Roman  brings  his  music  to  a  halt ; 

There  seems  an  indication  of  a  neighboring  revolt. 

He  takes  a  change  of  venue  of  about  a  dozen  feet, 

And  enfilades  the  windows  that  are  fronting  on 
the  street. 

Around  him  whirl  the  girls  and  boys,  with  ani- 
mated glee. 

Once  more  he  grinds ;  I  recognize  "Der  Deutscher 
Companie." 

"Der  Deutscher  companie  ish  der  beshtest  com- 
panie  " — 

The  music  bears  me  backward  to  the  year  of  '63. 

I  saw  a  German  regiment  step  out  from  our  brigade; 

It  marched  across  a  meadow  where  a  hundred  can- 
non played ; 


THE  ORGAN-GRINDER.  131 

Its  bugles  hurled  defiance  as  it  skirmished  up  a 

slope 
Amid  a  fire  that  gave  no  man  the  promise  of  a 

hope. 

They  fell  like  wheat ;  they  came  not  back ;  at  night 

no  bugles  played  — 
There  was  no  German  regiment  attached  to  our 

brigade. 

The  world  has  seen  thy  valor,  O  land  of  song  and 
vine  ! 

Since  Hermann  plucked  the  eagles  from  the  ram- 
parts of  the  Ehine. 

Down  valor's  lustrous  colonnade  is  seen  the  marble 
throng — 

Thy  warriors  and  thy  scholars,  O  land  of  vine  and 
song. 

About  this  time  the  nobleman  is  asked  to  take  a 

rest ; 

The  fires  of  indignation  light  his  Romulistic  breast. 
He  stops  the  crank;  he  gazes  up  defiantly,  yet 

mute, 
While  from  the  second  story  there  proceeds  an 

ancient  boot. 

With  steady  gaze  he  watches  it,  and,  like  a  man  of 

nerve, 
He  accurately  calculates  its  hyperbolic  curve. 


132  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

He  dodges  it ;  he  marches  on ;  but  soon  this  man 

of  Rome 
Begins  again  to  turn  the  crank, —  "Johnny  comes 

marching  home." 

"  When  Johnny  comes  marching  home  again,  hur- 
rah !  hurrah  !  — 

The  women  will  sing,  the  men  will  shout, 
The  boys  arid  girls  will  all  turn  out ; 
We  '11  all  be  gay  when  Johnny  comes  march- 
ing home." 

And  then  I  think  of  those  again  who  went  with 

me  to  war  — 
They  knew  where  they  were  going,  and  what  they 

went  there  for ; 
They  felt  that  there  was  little  left  of  present  or  of 

past, 
Of   hope,   of   home,   of   future,  if   the   die   were 

wrongly  cast. 
Fires  smouldered  at  the  firesides,  when  the  Nation 

called,  "To  arms!" 
My  comrades  left  the  forests,  the  founderies,  the 

farms ; 
They  fought  the  Nation's  battles,  on  the  land  and 

on  the  sea  — 
Alas !   alas !  no  millionaire  to  war  went  off  with 

me. 


THE  ORGAN-GRINDER.  133 

The  merit  of  the  country  marched,  and  filled  the 

Union  ranks  — 
The  money  of  the  country  marched,  and  filled  the 

English  banks. 
At  last,  when  all  was  over,  and  Johnny  ceased  to 

roam  — 
He  came  with  bugles  playing ;  the  specie  sneaked 

back  home. 

O  outcast  organ-grinder,  thy  simple  ballads  start 
The  frenzy  of  the  cyclone  through  the  highlands 

of  my  heart. 
Some   sneer  thy  ragged  music,  because  to  them 

there  comes 

No  bawling  of  the  bugles,  no  raving  of  the  drums. 
They  hear  no  "boots  and  saddles"  sounding  in  the 

midnight  chill ; 
They  hear  no  angry  cannon  thunder  up  the  rocky 

hill ; 
They  hear  no  canteens  rattle ;  they  see  no  muskets 

shine, 
As  ranks  sweep  by  in  double-quick  to  brace  the 

skirmish  line. 

Go  play  thy  simple  music,  O  friendless  sport  of  fate. 
The  ballads  of  the  people  are  the  bulwarks  of  the 
State. 


134  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

The  bugles  that  hang  dreaming  now,  like  bats  upon 

the  wall, 
Remember  well  those  choruses  which  rose  above 

the  call ; 
And  in  unconscious  musings,  those  battered  bugles 

see 
The  glories  of  the  future  in  the  centuries  to  be. 


MILLIONS. 

Millions  of  bad  men  has  the  world  called  good, 

Millions  of  good  the  world  called  black  and  bad  ; 
Millions  of  cowards,  strangely  understood, 
Have  passed  for  heroes  when  they  never  should; 
Millions  of  heroes  never  praise  have  had ; 
And  cravens  will  the  name  of  honor  rob 
Until  the  pulse  of  time  shall  cease  to  throb. 


WORST  AND  BEST.  135 


WORST  AND  BEST. 

Cheer  up,  my  soul  ;  thy  worst  days  are  thy  best. 

From  no  estate  of  work  or  fate  recoil, 

The  future  hath  its  corn,  and  wine  and  oil. 
Repel  repinings  witli  unflinching  zest ; 
Who  seeks  for  pleasure  hath  a  hopeless  quest. 

The  days  of  ease  our  better  life  despoil ; 

Immersed  in  the  oblivion  of  toil, 
The  hours  of  self-forgetfulness  are  blest. 

Our  worst  days  are  our  best ;   we  seldom  boast 
Of  hours  of  pleasure,  indolence  and  ease. 

On  present  grief  we  found  our  future  mirth  ; 
It  is  our  sorrows  which  we  cherish  most. 

The  soul  can  never  hold, —  can  scarcely  seize 
The  evanescent  pleasure  of  the  earth. 


136  RHYMES  OF  I  RON  QUILL. 


SUPERSTITION. 

Amid  the  verdure,  on  the  prairies  wide, 
There  stretches  o'er  the  undulating  floor, 
As  on  the  edges  of  an  ocean-shore, 

From  east  to  west,  half  buried,  side  by  side, 

A  chain  of  boulders,  which  the  icy  tide 
Of  glacial  epochs  centuries  before 
From  arctic  hills  superfluously  bore, 

And  left  in  Southern  summers  to  abide. 


So  on  the  landscape  of  our  times  is  seen 
The  rough  debris  of  error's  old  moraines. 
The  superstitions  of  a  thousand  creeds, 
Half  buried,  peer  above  the  waving  green ; 
But  kindly  time  will  cover  their  remains 
Beneath  a  sod  of  noble  thoughts  and  deeds. 


AN  ITALIAN  SONNET.  137 


AN  ITALIAN  SONNET. 

A  politician  was  Terhnne  McCarty. 

He  found  that  votes  were  captured  with  molasses. 

He  frequented  saloons ;  he  jingled  glasses ; 
He  talked  about  "our  great  and  glorious  party." 
In  language  insincere,  and  yet  most  hearty, 

He  always  eulogized  the  toiling  masses; 

Deplored  the  brutal  wealth  of  upper  classes. 
At  last,  a  councilman  became  McCarty. 

He    then    sang  "Hail   Columbia," — "Yankee 

Doodle," 
And  wore  a  watch-chain  bulky  as  a  cable; 

But  all  at  once  he  dropped  his  watermelon. 
They  caught  him  lugging  off  a  bag  of  boodle. 
They  stripped  him  quickly  of  his  party  label, 
And  jailed  him  as  a  self-convicted  felon. 


138  RHYMES  OF  IRONQU1LL. 


PRINTER'S  INK. 

Once  spoke  a  teacher  to  his  pupils,  "  Name 
The  metal  that  most  honors  men  with  fame." 

Then  shout  the  pupils,  in  a  chorus,  "  Steel ; 
Before  the  saber  must  the  scepter  reel." 

"Wrong," spoke  the  teacher ;  "try  again  and  name 
The  metal  that  most  honors  men  with  fame." 

Then  shout  the  pupils^  in  a  chorus,  "  Gold ; 
For  it  can  buy,  and  honors  all  are  sold." 

"Wrong,"  spoke  the  teacher;  "try  once  more  to 

name 
The  metal  that  most  honors  men  with  fame." 

They  all  were  silent;  then  spoke  one,  "I  think 
That  mighty  metal  must  be  printer'  zinc." 

"Right,"  spoke  the  teacher;   "for  it  does  not  fail 
To  make  the  nations  tremble  and  turn  pale." 

Then  shout  the  students,  in  a  chorus,  "Right  — 
The   world    most    honors    that    which    has    most 
might." 


GRIZZLY-GRU.  139 


GRIZZLY-GRU. 

0  thoughts  of  the  past  and  present, 
O  whither,  and  whence,  and  where, 

Demanded  my  soul,  as  I  scaled  the  height 
Of  the  pine-clad  peak  in  the  somber  night, 
In  the  terebinthine  air. 

While  pondering  on  the  frailty 

Of  happiness,  hope  and  mirth, 

The  ascending  sun  with  derisive  scoff 
Hurled  its  golden  lances  and  smote  me  off 

From  the  bulge  of  the  restless  earth. 

Through  the  yellowish  dawn  of  velvet, 
Where  stars  were  so  thickly  strewn, 

That  quietly  chuckled  as  I  passed  through, 

1  fell  in  the  gardens  of  Grizzly-Gru, 
On  the  mad,  mysterious  moon. 

I  fell  on  the  turquoise  ether, 

Low  down  in  the  wondrous  west, 

And  thence  to  the  moon  in  whose  yielding  blue 
Were  hidden  the  gardens  of  Grizzly-Gru, 

In  the  Monarchy  of  Unrest. 


140  RHYMES    OF  IRONQUILL. 

And  there  were  the  fairy  gardens, 

Where  beautiful  cherubs  grew 

In  daintiest  way  and  on  separate  stalks, 
In  the  listed  rows  by  the  jasper  walks, 

Near  the  palace  of  Grizzly-Gru. 

While  strolling  around  the  garden 

I  noticed  the  rows  were  full 

Of  every  conceivable  size  and  type  — 
Some  that  were  buds,  and  some  nearly  ripe, 

And  some  that  were  ready  to  pull. 

In  gauzy  and  white  corolla, 
Was  one  who  had  eyes  of  blue, 

A  little  excuse  of  a  baby  nose, 

Little  pink  ears,  and  ten  little  toes, 
And  a  mouth  that  kept  saying  ah-goo. 

Ah-gooing  as  I  came  near  her, 

She  raised  up  her  arms  in  glee  — 

Her  little  fat  arms  —  and  she  seemed  to  say, 
"I'm  ready  to  go  with  you  right  away; 

Don't  hunt  any  more  —  take  me." 

I  picked  her  off  quick  and  kissed  her, 

And,  hugging  her  to  my  breast, 

I  heard  a  loud  yelling  that  pierced  me  through, 
'Twas  His  Terrible  Eminence,  Grizzly-Gru, 

Of  the  Monarchy  of  Unrest. 


GRIZZLY-GRU,  141 

He  had  on  a  blood-red  turban, 

A  picturesque  lot  of  clothes, 

With  big  moustaches  both  fierce  and  black, 
And  a  ghastly  saber  to  cut  and  hack, 

And  shoes  that  turned  up  at  the  toes. 

Out  of  the  gate  of  the  garden 

The  cherub  and  I  took  flight, 

And  closely  behind  us  the  saber  flew, 
And  back  of  the  saber  came  Grizzly-Gru, 

And  he  chased  us  all  day  till  night. 

I  ran  down  the  lunar  crescent, 

And  out  on  the  silver  horn  ; 

I  kissed  the  baby  and  held  her  tight, 
And  jumped  down  into  the  starry  night, 

And  —  I  lit  on  the  earth  at  morn. 

He  fitfully  threw  his  saber, 

It  missed  and  went  round  the  sun  ; 

He  followed  no  further,  he  was  not  rash, 
But  the  baby  held  on  to  my  coarse  moustache, 

And  seemed  to  enjoy  the  fun. 

In  saving  that  blue-eyed  baby 
From  the  gardens  of  Grizzly-Gru, 

I  suffered  a  terrible  shock  and  fright ; 

But  the  doctor  believes  it  will  be  all  right, 
And  he  thinks  he  can  pull  me  through. 


142  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 


THE  BLUE-BIRD  OF  NOVEMBER. 


The  wind  is  howling  wildly,  like  a  drove  of  lean 

kiyutes ; 
The  steel-clad,  floating,  freezing  storm-cloud  from 

the  northwest  comes. 
I  'm  in  my  cheerful  office,  reading  poems,  and  my 

boots 
Are  stuck  up  at  the  stove,  which  with  a  blazing 

hodful  hums. 
I'm  reading  of  a  blue-eyed,  wandering,  hopeful 

little  princess  looking  for  a  home. 


I  lay  my  book  of  poems  upside  down  upon  a  chair — 
I  step  up  to  the  window,  where  a  box  of  fine-cut 

stands; 
Says  I,  "By  jings,  these  princesses  are  getting 

mighty  rare, 
And  always  have  such  dreadful  times  with  lovers 

and  with  plans; 
I'd  like  to  see  a  useless,  blue-eyed,  wandering 

little  princess  looking  for  a  home. 


THE   BLUE-BIRD    OF  NOVEMBER.  143 

"The  world  is  full  of  sympathy,  the  world  is  full 

of  homes  ; 
The  world  is  full  of  friendships,  though   hidden 

they  may  be ; 
When  gone  are  friends  and  sympathy,  perforce 

the  creature  roams, 
Invoking  them,  imploring  them,  at  large,  o'er  land 

and  sea." 
That 's  what  this  sentimental  poet  writes  about  this 

blue-eyed  little  princess  looking  for  a  home. 

See  here,  you  straggling  blue-bird,  hopping  on  the 
window  sill  ! 

You  hop  and  flop  and  flutter,  like  a  worn-out 
Greeley  flag. 

Tou  M  better  hunt  your  roosting-place  ;  it 's  winter 
and  it 's  chill, 

And  hoarse,  bleak,  evening  ice-storms  after  one 
another  tag. 

Says  she,  "Unhappy  me;  I'm  nothing  but  a  wan- 
dering, useless  little  blue-bird,  hunting  for  a 
home." 

Says  I,  "Then  skip  for  Texas,  it  isn't  far  away; 
Go   down   to  where   the  gulf    mists   through   the 

orange  branches  troop ; 
Fly  off  to  where  the  sunshine  dances  on  Aransas 

Bay, 


144  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

The  winter-blooming  Brazos,  the  vine-lined  Guad- 
eloupe. 

If  I  were  an  itinerant,  useless,  homeless  blue-bird, 
with  your  wings,  I  'd  find  a  home." 


Says  she,  "Speak  not  of  Guadeloupe,  the  Brazos, 
or  the  Bay — 

The  winter-blooming  prairies  of  that  sunny-hearted 
zone ; 

I  have  flown  through  orange  branches,  I  have 
floated  on  the  spray ; 

I  discover  no  companions,  and  I  find  myself  alone. 

I  find  myself  a  lonesome,  sad,  unsocial  little  blue- 
bird, longing  for  a  home." 


Into  the  raging  stove  I  then  did  hurl  a  hod  of  coal, 
And  raising  up  the  winter-crusted  sash-bar  from 

the  sill, 
Says  I,  "Your  lonesome  feelings  I  to  some  extent 

condole. 
Hop  in ;  here  's  food  and  firelight,  be  a  tenant  at 

your  will ; 
And  listen  while  I  read  a  lovely,  long-haired  poem 

of  a  blue-eyed  princess  looking  for  a  home. 


THE  BLUE- BIRD    OF  NOVEMBER.  145 

"The  world  is  full  of  happiness,  the  world  is  full 

of  homes, 
The  world  is  full  of  sympathy,  though  hidden  it 

may  be ; 
When  gone   are   friends   and   sympathy,  perforce 

the  creature  roams, 
Princess  or  blue-bird,  seeking  them,  over  the  land 

or  sea." 
That's  what  this  gifted,  wild-eyed,  transcendental 

poet  says  about  his  blue-eyed  little  princess 

looking  for  a  home. 


The  blue-bird  entered  gayly,  then  quicker  than  a 
wink 

She  darted  out  and  left  me,  ere  the  window  could 
be  closed. 

I  said,  you  little  blue-bird,  you  'd  better  stop  and 
think ; 

But,  then,  you  're  like  these  princesses.  It 's  just 
as  I  supposed. 

You  'd  be  unhappy  were  you  not  a  roaming,  ram- 
bling, useless  wanderer  with  no  home. 


146  RHYMES   OF  IRONQU1LL. 


KARMYL. 

On  the  eastern  shore  of  Kansas, 
Half  a  million  years  or  so 

Back  among  the  jeweled  eons, 
Did  I  love  the  Princess  Kannyl, 
Long  ago. 

Bluer  were  her  eyes  than  autumn 
Mists  of  morning,  and  her  hair 

Was  as  wavy  and  as  yellow 

As  the  sunbeams  of  the  languid 
August  air. 

'Mid  the  parks  around  the  palace 
And  the  tree-ferns,  did  we  stray, 

Laughing  at  the  tame  dinornis 
And  the  petted  pterodactyls' 
Awkward  play. 

'Neath  the  palm  trees  by  the  ocean 
Did  we  watch  the  summer  gales, 

Watch  the  ships  from  far  Atlantis, 
And  the  Uxmal  galleys  with  their 
Linen  sails. 


KARMYL.  147 

By  the  inland  Kansas  ocean, 

Half  a  million  years  or  so 
Back  among  the  silver  cycles, 

Did  I  love  the  Princess  Karmyl, 
Long  ago. 

But  the  blue-eyed  Princess  Karmyl 
Grieved  her  saddened  soul  away 

When  I  lost  my  life  jn  battle, 

Fighting  for  her  father's  kingdom, 
With  Cathay. 

Years  have  fled  —  the  sea  grew  shallow 

When  the  great  Atlantis  sank; 
Then  a  change  of  the  equator 

Made  the  power  of  warlike  Uxmal 
Lose  its  rank. 

Now  the  undulating  prairie, 

With  a  wealth  of  verdant  loam, 

Shows  a  sea  of  billows  greener 
Than  when  galleys  from  Atlantis 
Plowed  the  foam. 

But  the  blue-eyed  little  Karmyl 
With  her  sunshine  is  not  there ; 

And  I  fear  she  never  will  be, 
For  they  tell  me  she  is  living 
In  Altair. 


148  RHYMES   OF  IRONQUILL. 


QUESTION. 

To  his  courtier  spake  the  Czar, 
Looking  o'er  the  fields  afar : 
"  Count  the  plowmen  that  you  see, 
And  their  number  tell  to  me." 

From  the  palace  porch  afar 
Looked  and  answered  he  the  Czar : 
"In  the  distance  there  are  two  — 
Two  are  all  there  are  in  view." 

"Rightly  spoken,"  said  the  Czar, 

"  Two  the  men  that  plowing  are ; 

Tell  their  number,  if  you  can, 

If  we  call  that  plow  a  man." 

Quickly  answered  he  the  Czar : 

"  Two  the  men  now  plowing  are ; 

Call  that  plow  a  man,  and  then 

Three  the  number  of  the  men." 

Flashed  -with  anger  then  the  Czar, 
And  his  eye  gleamed  like  a  star, 
As  he  looked  the  courtier  through : 
"Wrong,  sir,  wrong!   still,  only  two. 


THE  REASON.  149 

"Who  shall  stand  beside  a  Czar, 
With  an  empire  spreading  far? 
Who  shall  give  advice  to  kings, 
Knowing  not  that  things  are  things? 

"By  the  edict  of  the  Czar, 
To  the  Caucasus  afar, 
Go  !  until  thou  knowest  when 
Things  are  things,  and  men  are  men." 


THE  KEASON. 

Says  John  last  night : 
"  William,  by  grab !  I'm  beat 
To  know  why  stolen  kisses 
Taste  so  sweet." 

Says  William:   "Sho! 

That 's  easily  explained  — 
It 's  'cause  they  're  syrup- 

titiously  obtained." 

O  cruel  thought! 

O  words  of  cruel  might  I 
The  coroner 

He  sat  on  John  that  night. 


150  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


POLITICS. 

Many  the  childhood  friends  of  mine 

That  started  ahead  of  me, 
Fearless  in  ignorance,  buoyant  in  hope, 

To  sail  on  the  vitriol  sea. 
Little  they  knew  of  the  depth  or  the  scope 

Of  the  treacherous  vitriol  sea. 

Some  of  them  sailed  in  painted  boats, 

Most  beautiful  things  to  see : 
Gossamer  boats  of  ephemeral  wood, 

As  fragile  as  ever  could  be ; 
Soon  to  discover  that  wood  was  not  good 

In  the  cankering  vitriol  sea. 

Many  tried  brass,  and  some  tried  glass, 

To  sail  on  the  vitriol  sea; 
Mindless  alike  of  corrosion  or  storms 

They  sailed  with  hilarious  glee, 
Happy  to-day,  but  to-morrow  in  swarms 

To  be  sunk  in  the  vitriol  sea. 

"  Where  did  they  wish  to  go,"  you  ask, 
"That  sailed  on  the  vitriol  sea? " 
That  is  a  something  I  never  shall  know, 

A  mystery  even  to  me. 
All  that  I  know  is,  they  wanted  to  go, 
And  to  sail  on  the  vitriol  sea. 


THE    OLD   KANSAS   VETERAN.  151 


THE  OLD  KANSAS  VETERAN. 

An  aged  soldier,  with  his  hair  snow-white, 
Sat  looking  at  the  night. 

A  busy  shining  angel  came,  with  things 
Like  chevrons  on  his  wings, 

He  said,  "The  evening  detail  has  been  made — 
Report  to  your  brigade." 

The  soldier  heard  the  message  that  was  sent ; 
Then  rose,  and  died,  and  went. 


152  RHYMES   OF  IRONQUILL. 


PASS. 

A  father  said  unto  his  hopeful  son, 
"Who  was  Leonidas,  my  cherished  one?  " 

The  boy  replied,  with  words  of  ardent  nature, 
"He  was  a  member  of  the  legislature." 
"  How  ?  "  asked  the  parent ;    then  the  youngster 

saith : 

"He  got  a  pass,  and  held  her  like  grim  death." 
"Whose  pass?    what  pass?"  the  anxious  father 

cried ; 
"  'T  was  the'r  monopoly,"  the  boy  replied. 

In  deference  to  the  public,  we  must  state, 
That  boy  has  been  an  orphan  since  that  date. 


PARESIS.  .  153 


PARESIS. 

On  the  shores  of  Yellow  Paint 
I  have  heard  the  tempest  roar ; 
I  have  heard  the  falling  crash 
Of  the  lightning-riven  ash  ; 
Seen  the  branches  of  the  oak 
Like  the  world  at  large,  half-broke  ;- 
Seen  the  shattered  sycamore. 

Men  and  trees  are  scarcely  twain, 

And  the  rules  alike  obtain, 

For  the  highest  of  renown 
Are  the  surest  stricken  down ; 
But  the  stupid  and  the  clown 

They  remain. 


154  RHYMES   OF  I  RON  QUILL. 


THE  FORT  SCOTT  OWL. 

[Newspaper.] 

As  the  lingering,  langorous  lunkhead 

Is  wending  his  wandering  way 
Over  the  Kansas  prairies, 

In  the  dusk  of  declining  day, 
He  sees  in  the  twinkling  twilight 

The  gleaming  and  jeweled  germs 
Of  that  prophecy  of  the  future 

Where  the  murmuring  Marmaton  mtirins. 

When  the  arc-lights  prop  the  midnight, 

When  gore  from  the  pale  moon  drips ; 
When  the  red-headed  comets  are  feeling 

Their  way  through  the  vast  ellipse ; 
When  the  Charioteer  is  a-lashing 

His  steeds  through  the  globulous  gloom, 
As  nebulae  spot  their  pale  bine  sides 

With  fleckings  of  fiery  spume, 
The  OWL  on  the  murmuring  Marmaton 

Is  waking  the  echoing  bluff 
With  the  roar  of  advanced  ideas 

And  the  gush  of  a  gorgeous  guff. 


THE    GRANGER'S    TEXT.  155     . 


THE  GKANGER'S  TEXT. 

Long  the  Topeka?  convention  wrangled, 
"  Good  men  for  office  "  got  into  a  balk, 
Grange  nominations  were  hopelessly  tangled, 
Sargent  got  up  and  gave  them  a  talk ; 
Said  to  the  delegates  quarreling  so: 
"Smooth  it  over  and  let  it  go." 


Many  a  time  I  have  thought  of  the  quarrel 

That  "good  men  for  office"  so  often  reach; 
Many  a  time  I  have  thought  that  a  moral 
Shone  like  a  lantern  in  Sargent's  speech, 
When  he  suggested  to  friend  and  foe, 
"Smooth  it  over  and  let  it  go." 


When  a  fierce  editor,  boiling  with  fury, 

Paints  you  with  hot  editorial  tar, 
Don't  start  a  libel  suit,  don't  hire  a  jury, 

Don't  seek  redress  from  the  bench  or  the  bar; 
Lies  sometimes  vanish,  facts  always  grow  — 
"Smooth  it  over  and  let  it  go." 


156  RHYMES    OF  1RONQUILL. 

When  you  consent  to  be  placed  on  a  ticket, 
When  you  have  ntade  up  your  mind  to  run, 

Speed  it  your  best — the  political  thicket 

Tears  off  your  clothes,  but  makes  lots  of  fun ; 

If  yon  are  minus  a  vote  or  so, 
"Smooth  it  over  and  let  it  go." 


Efforts  and  hopes  may  be  lighter  or  graver, 

Either  in  politics,  business,  or  fame ; 
Things  may  go  crooked,  and  friendships  may  waver, 
Nevertheless,  the  rule  is  the  same ; 

Facts  will  be  facts ;  when  you  find  it  so, 
"Smooth  it  over  and  let  it  go." 


THE  LEAP-YEAR  PARTY.  157 


THE  LEAP-YEAR  PARTY. 

Around  the  hall 
I  see  the  fairies  trooping, 

In  merry  promenade; 

Along  the  wall, 
Disconsolately  drooping, 

Masculine  wall-flowers  fade. 


Those  hands  which  once 
They  sqnoze  with  solemn  rapture, 

Days  of  old, 

Are  now  beyond 
All  present  power  to  capture 

Or  to  hold. 


And  now  the  caller, 
Cum,  volante  grando, 

Shrieks  down  the  hall; 

Anon  the  orchestra, 
"With  harsh  sforzando, 

Insists  on  "  balance  all." 


158  RHYMES    OF  JRONQUILL. 

O,  tempora  ! 
The  present  time  and  custom  — 

The  atmospheric  spirit  of  the  age, 

Have  made  these  women 
So  we  cannot  trust  'em. 

Who  knows  what  ills  the  present 
may  presage  ? 


Of  that  event 
The  deepening  shadows  lengthen : 

While  far  away 

We  see  the  fast 
Combining  clouds,  that  strengthen 

Our  terror  of  that  day. 


ADVICE  $j.  169 


ADVICE  $5. 

If  the  railroad  kills  your  stock, 
And  yon  want  to  get  even, 
And  they  will  not  fix  it  up, 

The  way  to  do  it 
Is  to  get  a  keg  of  soap, 
Of  about  forty  gallons, 

And  stick  a  little  scrub-broom  into  it. 

Then  sweep  down  the  track 
For  about  a  half  a  mile, 
Then  return  to  the  place 

Where  you  commence; 
Then  smash  your  little  keg 
And  throw  away  your  broom, 
And  mount  the  nearest 

Stake-and-ridered  fence. 

Then  you'll  bust  yourself  a-laughing 
At  the  engineer  a-swearing, 
And  the  engine  wheels  a-turning 

Kound  and  round. 
And  you  '11  fall  off  from  the  rider, 
And  you'll  break  your  spinal  column, 
And  your  folks  will  take  and 

Plant  you  in  the  ground. 


160  RHYMES   OF  IRON  QUILL. 


THE  WHISPERER. 

He  never  tried  to  make  a  speech ; 
A  speech  was  far  beyond  his  reach. 
He  didn't  even  dare  to  try  ; 
He  did  his  work  upon  the  sly. 
He  took  the  voter  to  the  rear 
And  gently  whispered  in  his  ear. 

He  never  wrote;  he  could  not  write; 
He  never  tried  that  style  of  fight. 
No  argument  of  his  was  seen 
In  daily  press  or  magazine. 
He  only  tried  to  get  up  near 
And  whisper  in  the  voter's  ear. 

It  worked  so  well  that  he  became 
A  person  of  abundant  fame. 

He  couldn't  write;  he  couldn't  speak, 
But  still  pursued  his  course  unique. 
He  had  a  glorious  career  — 
He  whispered  in  the  voter's  ear. 


THE  SIEGE    OF  DJKLXPRWBZ.  161 


THE  SIEGE  OF  D JKLXPKWBZ. 

Before  a  Turkish  town 

The  Russians  came, 
And  with  huge  cannon 

Did  bombard  the  same. 

They  got  up  close 

And  rained  fat  bombshells  down, 
And  blew  out  every 

Yowel  in  the  town. 

And  then  the  Turks, 

Becoming  somewhat  sad, 

Surrendered  every 
Consonant  they  had. 


162  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


THEBJE. 

Thirty  or  forty  centuries  or  so, 

We  can't  be  certain,  it 's  so  long  ago, 

A  youth  named  Kadmus  lived  in  ancient  Tyre ; 

But  much  against  the  wishes  of  his  sire 
He  learned  to  be  a  dentist,  and  expressed 
A  strong  intention  of  removing  West. 

One  day  he  packed  his  teeth  in  a  valise, 
And  with  his  forceps  sailed  away  for  Greece; 
And  Kadmus  shook,  so  ancient  legends  state, 
His  bi-  and  for-ceps  in  the  teeth  of  fate. 
Ah  !  those  old  times  did  certainly  presage 
What  Prentis  calls:   Our  ripsnortiferous  age. 

About  the  time  the  land  of  Greece  became 
A  proper  subject  of  pre-emption  claim, 

Young  Kadmus  viewed  the  most  important  spots, 
Selected  one,  and  laid  it  out  in  lots ; 
Denied  he  was  a  dentist,  and  beneath 
The  verdant  sod  he  buried  tools  and  teeth. 

He  bought  a  charter,  then  walked  up  and  down 

The  Grecian  coast  a-shouting  for  his  town. 
He  called  it  Thebae,  and  in  course  of  time 
The  price  of  corner  lots  began  to  climb, 

And  so  it  was  young  Kadmus  here  became 

A  candidate  for  poverty  and  fame. 


AN  ODE    TO    WATER.  163 


AN  ODE  TO  WATER. 

I  never  made  a  prohibition  speech, 

Nor  eulogized  thee  as  a  proper  beverage ; 

But  there  is  one  conclusion  which  I  reach : 

That  there  are  spheres  in  which  thou  hast  the 
leverage. 

And  though  I  don't  expect  to  use  thee  freely, 

I'll  speak  no  more  of  thee  with  contumely. 

Although  for  food  thou  art  not  well  designed, 
More  due,  perhaps,  to  thy  extreme  fluidity ; 

And  though  thou  dost  at  times  drown  human  kind, 
And  wipe  out  towns  with  unforeseen  rapidity ; 

And  though  thou  lackest  that  fine  beady  flavor 
Which  if  thou  hadst  would  give  thee  much  more 
favor : 

Still,  thou  dost  make  the  wheat  and  corn  crops 
grow, 

While  then  the  people  seem  content  with  amity, 
And  no  old  played-out  politicians  go 

Around  and  sound  the  hew-gag  of  calamity : 
And  all  the  people  seem  to  have  some  reason ; 
And  all  the  crops  somehow  arrive  in  season. 


164  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

I've  almost  made  my  mind  up  that  I'll  try 
And  get  accustomed  to  thy  potability ; 

Since  thou  as  rain  descending  from  the  sky 
Dost  give  us  such  political  tranquility, 

For  every  time  thou  comest  as  a  soaker 

Thou  endest  all  there  is  of  some  old  croaker. 


1884. 

O'er  sunny  Kansas 

Some  commercial  Cadmus, 

In  days  unknown, 

The  teeth  of  golden  dragons  must 

have  sown ; 
For  when  the  prairies 
Feel  the  breath  of  summer, 

The  trowels  ring, 

And  from  the  soil  the  burnished 
cities  spring. 


BACCARAT.  165 


BACCAEAT. 

The  Prince  said,  "I'll  be  banker,"  and  then  he 

wank  a  wink, 

And  with  old  lady  Wilson  did  an  absinthe  cock- 
tail drink ; 
He  stroked   his  royal  stomach,  pulled  down   his 

princely  vest ; 
"Oh,  drop  some  guineas  in  the  slot,  and  I  will  do 

the  rest  — 

For  I  'm  a  randy-dandy  of  the  William  Rufus  line, 
Hoss- racing  and   gam -bo -ling  I  have  got  down 

very  fine ; 
I  only  race  and  gambole  with  the  loftiest  of  the 

loft; 
Oh,  let  us  make  it  lively  while  we  stay  at  Tranby 

Croft." 

The  Prince  he  was  the  banker;  and  he  gave  the 

cards  a  flip. 
He  said,  "Now  this  is  earnest  —  it's  bullion  and 

not  lip; 
The  more  you  put  up  here,  my  friends,  the  less 

you  will  rake  down  ; 
I  'm  bound  to  bust  this  party,  if  I  have  to  spout 

the  crown. 


166  RHYMES  OF  JRONQUILL. 

Oh,  yellow  is  the  water  where  the  Yellow  Paintu. 

Creek  flows; 
Oh,  yellow  are  the  sovereigns  that  buy  such  chips 

as  those. 
Those  chips  I  carry  with  me,  and  I  use  them  oft 

and  oft,  * 

For  I  'in  a  handy-dandy,  and  the  cream  of  Tranb} 

Croft." 

The  Prince  he  was  the  banker,  and  he  diligentlj 

dole, 
But  Gordon  Gumming  won  the  cash,  and  not  a 

smile  he  smole  — 
And  then  said  Gordon  Gumming,  "Your  luck  ] 

do  deplore ; 
If  you  stay  with  me  here  all  night,  you  '11  owe 

eight  millions  more." 
Oh,  always  let  His  Highness  win  —  to  beat  hia 

game  was  rash ; 

It  wasn't  hoss-pitality  to  win  the  Prince's  cash. 
You  've  won   the  Prince's  good   hard   stuff,  and 

then  you've  gone  and  "coughed," 
And  called  the  world's  attention  to  the  ways  of 

Tranby  Croft. 

Victoria!  Victoria  1     May  you  be  long  on  earth; 
America  sends  tribute  to  your  greatness  uud  your 
worth. 


WAR-FARE.  167 

Oh,  make  your  will,  Victoria,  and  will  the  English 

throne 
Back  to  the  English  people,  and  let  young  Wales 

alone. 
The  people  they  can  rule  themselves,  and  then  it 

will  be  fine 

To  have  a  noble  sovereign  end  off  a  royal  line. 
And  Wales  will  like  it  just  as  well  —  the  snap  will 

be  so  soft, 
He  won't  have  anything  to  do  but  stay  at  Tranby 

Croft. 


WARFARE. 

"Oh,  what  a  horrid  thing  this  warfare  is!  " 

Then  Jim  replied, "You  're  very  much  mistaken  ; 

I  joined  the  home-guards  when  Price  struck  Fort 

Scott, 
And  then  our  fare  was  hard-bread,  coffee,  bacon." 

u  The  fare  of  war,  I  am  not  talking  of !  " 
Responded  William,  with  an  angry  shout ; 

"Oh,  yes,  I  see,"  says  Jim ;  "well,  of  the  war, 
The  fare  's  all  I  know  anything  about." 


168  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 


EMPEROR  WILLIAM   AND   THE  WHALE. 

[1891.] 

Upon  the  sea  the  good  ship  Hohenzollern 

Pushed  back  the  spumy  brine, 
While  close  behind  another  ship  was  foller'n', 

Bearing  a  hotel  sign. 

Behind  the  latter  came  another,  loaded 
With  sweitzer  cheese,  while  near 

Another  heavy  merchantman  foreboded 
A  thousand  kegs  of  beer ; 

And  then,  as  if  to  ward  off  all  disasters 

To  those,  there  followed  hard, 
A  dozen  burdened  cumbersome  three-masters, 

With  pretzels  to  the  guard. 

And  all  because  his  Highness  did  determine 

That  he  would  northward  sail, 
So  that  the  monarch  of  the  empire  German, 

Could  fish  and  catch  a  whale. 

His  Highness  plucked  the  north-pole  from  its 
socket  — 

An  anchor  then  undid  — 
Pulled  out  a  cable  from  his  breeches  pocket, — 

Baited  with  royal  squid  : 


EMPEROR   WILLIAM  AND    THE    WHALE.      169 

Then,  sitting  on  the  stern-board  of  his  frigate, 

His  mud-hooks  to  the  rear, 
He  fished  and  fished,  while  some  one  at  the  spigot 

Filled  up  his  tank  with  beer. 

Within  the  circle  of  the  Arctic  Ocean, 

Amid  the  billows  pale, 
His  Royal  Highness,  with  supreme  devotion, 

Coaxed  the  distrustful  whale. 

He  banged  his  heels,  and  knocked  off  the  enamel 

That  graced  the  painted  stern, 
But,  still  it  was,  no  oceanic  mammal 

His  Highness  could  discern ; 

And  then  his  hook,  and  pole,  and  line,  he  tumbled 

Into  the  maelstrom's  swirl, 
And  back  again  to  home  and  throne  went  humbled, 

To  rule  another  whirl. 

And  when  returned,  there  came  to  him  a  henchman, 
Who,  speaking,  turned  most  pale, 

"You  '11  find  a  place,"  said  an  ambitious  Frenchman, 
"Where  you  will  get  a  WHALE." 


170  RHYMES   OF  IRON  QUILL. 


A  KANSAS  IDYL. 

Into  a  frontier  town  of  Kansas  came 

An  aborigine  in  moccasins  and  war  paint ; 

And  he  bore  the  look — wan  look — of  the 

Untutored  savage.     And  there  also  came 

A  proud  Caucasian,  in  boots  and  spurs  and  pistols 

Clad  —  a  rover,  full  of  strange  oaths,  and 

Bearded,  like  his  pard.     He  had  a  classic 

Brow.     In  youth,  at  Yale,  a  stroke-oar  he 

Had  been,  and  deemed  a  youth  of  power  and 

Culture  rare.     They,  each  to  each  a  stranger, 

Sought  this  Kansas  village  in  pursuit 

Of  ardent  spirits.     Prohibition  held  full  sway. 

The  unrelenting  man  of  drugs  and 

Merchandise  refused  to  sell  the  article 

Demanded.     Away  in  anger  and  disgust 

The  proud  Caucasian  strode,  and  as 

His  fervid  language  percolated  through 

The  filmy  ether,  spectators  at  a  distance 

Thought  that  an  aurora  borealis  was 

On  exhibition.     Back  to  his  ranch  returning, 

He  to  bed  went  sober.     But  the  aborigine 

With  more  stoicism  met  refusal  from 

The  man  of  drugs,  and  purchasing  of  hair  oil 

A  quart  bottle,  to  his  wigwam  went. 


A   KANSAS  IDYL.  171 

Into  that  oil  that  aborigine  some  water  poured, 
And  by  a  process  of  disintegration  the 
Alcohol,  with  which  the  oil  was  cut, 
United  with  the  water,  and  the  oil, 
Floating  above,  was  gently  skimmed  away. 
And  then  the  noble  aborigine  proceeded 
To  become  inebriated,  and  well  did  he 
Succeed,  and  went  to  bed  in  a  condition 
Which  the  rover  would  have  envied. 

'Tis  ever  thus  with  the  untutored  savage, 

Who  yearning  after  nature's  means  and  meas- 
ures, 

With  pure  and  child-like  instinct  seeks  to  ravage 
The  dim  arcana  of  its  mystic#pleasures, 
And  wrest  from  nature's  vault  its  cryptic  treas- 
ures. 

While  by  his  side,  clogged  with  redundant  learning, 
The  proud  Caucasian  swears,  and  gets  left,  yearning. 


172  RHYMES    OF  IRONQUILL. 


THE  JACKPOT. 

I  sauntered  down  through  Europe, 

I  wandered  up  the  Nile, 
I  sought   the  mausoleums  where   the   mummied 

Pharaohs  lay ; 
I  found  the  sculptured  tunnel 

Where  quietly  in  style 

Imperial  sarcophagi  concealed  the  royal  clay. 
Above  the  vault  was  graven  deep  the  motto  of  the 

crown : 
"Who  openeth  a  jackpot  may  not  always  rake  it 

down." 

It 's  strange  what  deep  impressions 

Are  made  by  little  things. 

Within  the  granite  tunneling  I  saw  a  dingy  cleft; 
It  was  a  cryptic  chamber. 

I  drew,  and  got  four  kings. 
But  on  a  brief  comparison  I  laid  them  down  and 

left, 
Because  upon  the  granite  stood  that  sentence  bold 

and  brown  : 
"Who  openeth  a  jackpot  may  not  always  rake  it 

down." 


THE  JACKPOT.  173 

I  make  this  observation : 

A  man  with  such  a  hand 
Has  psychologic  feelings  that  perhaps  he  should 

not  feel, 

But  I  was  somewhat  rattled 
And  in  a  foreign  land, 
And  had  some  dim  suspicions,  as  I  had  not  watched 

the  deal. 
And  there  was  that  inscription,  too,  in  words  that 

seemed  to  frown : 
"Who  openeth  a  jackpot  may  not  always  rake  it 

down." 

These  letters  were  not  graven 
In  Anglo-Saxon  tongue ; 
Perhaps  if  you  had  seen  them  you  had  idly  passed 

them  by. 
I  studied  erudition 

When  I  was  somewhat  young; 
I  recognized  the  language  when  it  struck  my  classic 

eye; 

I  saw  a  maxim  suitable  for  monarch  or  for  clown  : 
"Who  openeth  a  jackpot  may  not  always  rake  it 

down." 

Detesting  metaphysics, 

I  cannot  help  but  put 

A  philosophic  moral  where  I  think  it  ought  to 
hang; 


174  RHYMES   OF  IRONQUILL. 

I've  seen  a  "boom"  for  office 
Grow  feeble  at  the  root, 

Then  change  into  a  booinlet  —  then  to  a  boom- 
erang. 

In  caucus  or  convention,  in  village  or  in  town : 

"Who  openeth  a  jackpot  may  not  always  rake  it 
down." 


A  SEA-KIOUS   STOUT. 

From  Panama  to  San  Francisco  bay, 
An  overcrowded  steamship  sailed  away. 

The  third  day  out,  a  husky  miner  came 
Up  to  the  clerk,  and  calling  him  by  name, 

He  said  :   "Your  ship  is  crowded,  sir,  a  heap 
Too  much  for  me ;  find  me  a  place  to  sleep." 

The  clerk  responded,  with  a  stately  smile : 

"  Sleep  where  you  've  been  a-sleeping  all  the  while." 

"It  kayn't  be  did,"  the  miner  answered  quick. 
"I  slept  upon  a  deck-hand  who  was  sick; 

"He  's  convalessed,  and  now  since  he  is  stronger, 
He  swears  he  won't  endure  it  any  longer." 

The  clerk  was  pleased  to  hear  the  miner's  mirth, 
And  fixed  him  with  a  "snifter"  and  a  berth. 


A    QUININE  DREAM.  175 


A  QUININE  DREAM. 

[  While  damming  Paint  Creek  last  weeTc,  got  the 
ague,  took  forty  grains  of  quinine,  attended  a  pro- 
hibition meeting,  and  was  sick  three  days.] 

Eighty  elephants  in  line 

Watched  a  turkey  made  of  pine 

Hang  a  bag  of  roasted  peanuts  to  a  string  of  cot- 
ton twine. 

Then  a  boy  whose  name  was  Billy 

Fed  a  monkey  with  a  lily 

While  the  monkey's  younger  brother  looked  unusu 
ally  silly 

When  Yum  !  Yum  !  Yum  ! 

Went  the  girl  with  pepsin  gum 
A  man  who  uses  metaphor 
Insisted  he  should  pet  her  for 

Her  wayward  absent  lover  who  would  never,  never 
come. 

Then  the  Public  Square  curled  up 
And  an  epileptic  pup 

Went  to  blinking  and  to  drinking  something  yel- 
low from  a  cup. 


176  RHYMES   OF  IRON  QUILL. 

Then  a  deacon  caught  a  tartar 
•Tied  him  firmly  with  a  garter 
To  a  patent  ice-cream  freezer  where  he  perished 

like  a  martyr 

When  Bang!  Bang!   Bang! 
Loud  an  old  revolver  rang 

A  man  whose  name  was  Galloway 

Obstructing  a  dark  alley-way 
Was  scared  so  bad  he  ran  and  talked  a  quantity  of 
slang. 


Then  a  huckleberry  pie 
Bade  its  relatives  good-bye 

As  a  spotted  Norman  dray  horse  wiped  the  moist- 
ure from  its  eye. 

Soon  a  gloomy  man  named  Purdy 
Started  up  a  hurdy-gurdy 
While  a  chap  of  nineteen  winters  called  a  freckled 

female  "Birdie." 
When  Boom !   Boom  !  Boom  ! 
Came  a  gloaming  through  the  gloom 
A  voice  that  seemed  auxiliary 
To  shot-gun  and  distillery 

And  seemingly  constructed  of  concussion  and  pei- 
fume. 


A    QUININE  DREAM.  177 

Then  a  thousand  pulleys  whirr 

And  the  roofs  begin  to  stir 

While  a  feline  makes  a  bee-line  to  a  fence  to  save 

her  fur. 

Then  a  talented  attorney 
Who  had  just  arrived  from  Smyrna 
Tries  to  interest  a  lamp-post  with  the  details  of  his 

journey 

When  Whack!  Whack!   Whack! 
Forty  peelers  beat  him  black 
And  then  with  language  cursory 
They  take  him  to  a  nursery 
And  plant  him  sixteen   inches   down    below   the 

zodiac. 


O  NEW  YEAR,  greet  the  old, 
And  hide  as  it  has  hid 

The  sights  which  we  have  saw, 
The  deeds  which  we  have  did. 


178  RHYMES  OF  2RONQUILL. 


KETKOSPECTIVE. 


Through  the  days  so  mild  and  mellow 
While  the  leaves  were  growing  yellow, 
We  did  bellow — loudly  bellow 

For  a  platform  full  of  "isms"; 
Many  others  did  as  we  did, 
But  our  efforts  were  unheeded, 
For  the.  people  said  they  needed 

More  of  sense,  and  less  of  schisms. 

Female  suffrage  !   Prohibition  1  — 
We  are  now  in  a  position 
To  demand  a  new  edition  — 

A  revision,  as  of  yore ; 
And  the  late  lamented  martyr, 
He  has  got  a  little  starter 
To  the  shades  where  many  a  smarter — 

Smarter  man  has  gone  before. 

Let  us  relegate  our  preachers 
To  their  desks  as  moral  teachers ; 
Governments  were  made  for  creatures 

That  are  living  now  on  earth ; 
Not  for  angels  that  wear  laurels, 
But  for  men  with  woes  and  quarrels — 
Men  of  vice  as  well  as  morals, 

Men  of  grief  as  well  as  mirth. 


RETROSPECTIVE.  179 

If  a  man  is  on  an  isthmus, 

Or  is  troubled  with  strabismus, 

You  can  talk  from  June  till  Christmas  — 

He  is  still  as  narrow-sighted  ; 
Add  to  this  a  poor  digestion, 
And  the  world  must  be  refreshed  on 
Some  important  moral  question, 

And  instanter  must  be  righted. 

Yes  !  that  platform  was  a  jewel ; 
It  were  cruel,  very  cruel, 
Now  to  use  it  up  for  fuel, 

But  it  must  and  will  be  done; 
And  our  short-haired  female  brother, 
And  our  long-haired  other,  t'other 
Brother  —  he  must  find  another, 

Go  and  get  another  one. 

When  the  party  gets  less  antic 
Over  "isms,"  and  less  frantic 
Over  frauds  that  sycophantic 

Fools  rehearse, 
Then  the  party  will  be  victor, 
And  will  march  —  why,  bless  your  pictur  !  — 
Prouder  than  a  Roman  lictor; 

Now  its  lict — or  worse. 


180  RHYMES   OF  IRONQUILL. 


THE  KANSAS  JAIL. 

(1900.) 

I  hear  the  lowing  of  the  distant  herd,    . 

I  hear  the  blackbirds  carol  at  the  morn. 
They  sing  and  sing  as  if  with  joy  deferred 
They  brought  good  tidings  telling  word  by  word, 

"The  jail  is  full  of  corn." 

The  merry  zephyrs  now  no  longer  see 

A  broken-hearted  landscape  lean  and  lorn, 
But  as  they  whirl  they  whisper  in  their  glee, 
"Things  are  more  halcyon  than  they  used  to  be, — 
The  jail  is  full  of  corn." 

The  horse-thief  went.  The  cowboy  joined  the  church, 

The  justice  of  the  peace  is  laughed  to  scorn, 
The  constable  has  tumbled  from  his  perch, 
The  school  has  left  the  sheriff  in  the  lurch, — 
The  jail  is  full  of  corn. 


ALGOMAR.  181 


ALGOMAK. 

loline,  my  loline, 

Will  you  be  no  more  my  queen  ; 

Must  you  always  stay  \ 
Is  my  waiting  unavailing, 
Must  all  wishes  end  in  failing, 

Must  all  hope  decay? 
Must  all  happiness  at  last 
Fade  into  the  past? 

It  is  longer  than  a  year 

Since  you  came  to  see  me  here, 

Earnest  loline ; 

Since  you  came  in  moonlight  beamy, 
Came  to  cheer  me  and  to  see  me, 

To  be  loved  and  seen ; 
Since  you  left  that  pearly  star, 
Far-off  Algomar. 

Come  and  sing  to  me  once  more, 
As  you  often  have  before, 

Songs  of  other  zones. 
Come  and  hum  those  airy,  sketchy 
Arias,  so  bright  and  catchy, 

Taken  from  the  tones 
That,  unheard  by  human  ears, 
Thrill  the  radiant  spheres. 


RHYMES   OF  I  RON  QUILL. 


A  SHINING  MARK. 

A  man  came  here  from  Idaho 
With  lots  of  mining  stock. 

He  brought  along  as  specimens 
A  lot  of  mining  rock. 

The  stock  was  worth  a  cent  a  pound 

If  stacked  up  in  a  pile. 
The  rock  was  worth  a  dollar  and 

A  half  per  cubic  mile. 

We  planted  him  at  eventide, 
'Mid  shadows  dim  and  dark  ; 

We  fixed  him  up  an  epitaph, — 
"Death  loves  a  mining  shark." 


THE  PRODIGAL   SON.  183 


THE  PRODIGAL  SON. 

He  tramped  from  Tyre  to  Sidon 
With  his  sandals  on  his  arm, 

And  then  he  struck  for  Jordan 
And  the  big  ancestral  farm. 

His  mantle  it  was  full  of  burs, 

His  noble  brow  was  wet. 
The  fatted  calf  it  tugged  upon 

A  horse-hair  lariat. 

His  father  ran  to  meet  him : 
"Right  glad,"  said  he,  "I  am. 
Your  trunk  got  home.     Your  ma         m 
Is  well.     We  got  your  telegram. 

'To-morrow  night  the  banquet  is; 

Your  auntie  reads  a  pome, 
And  you  respond  unto  a  toast, 
'There  's  nary  place  like  home.'  " 

The  prodigal  looked  sad,  and  then 

With  choking  voice  said  he, 
'Good-bye,  good-bye,  old  home; 

Them  husks  is  good  enough  for  me." 

Then  came  a  dull  and  sickening  thud, 
That  no  one  could  forget  — 

That  calf,  in  glee,  had  run  and  bust 
That  horse-hair  lariat  1 


184  RHYMES    OF  IRON  QUILL. 


FUNSTON  AND  HOBSON. 

[About  three  weeks  before  the  declaration  of  war  by  the  United  States 
against  Spain,  the  piece  entitled  "Kansas  to  Alabama"  was  published  in 
St.  Louis.  Four  days  after  the  publication  an  answer  appeared,  entitled 
"Alabama  to  Kansas."  It  is  curious  to  note  that  the  war  did  produce  two 
national  heroes  and  popular  idols, — Hobson  in  Cuba,  on  the  part  of  Alabama, 
and  Funston  In  the  Philippines,  on  the  part  of  Kansas.  The  authorship  of 
the  Alabama  reply  cannot  be  given,  as  inquiries  were  not  answered.] 


KANSAS    TO    ALABAMA. 

Are  you  there,  are  you  there,  Alabam? 

There  seems  to  be  a  lot  of  trouble  coming. 
There 's  music  in  the  air,  Alabara, — 

The  music  of  the  fifing  and  the  drumming. 
Be  my  pard,  be  my  pard, 
And  we  '11  fight  them  mighty  hard, 
Alabam. 

Our  old  war  made  it  plain,  Alabam, 

We  neither  one  was  lacking  spunk  or  mettle. 
This  little  round  with  Spain,  Alabam, 

Will  have  a  question  I  would  like  to  settle. 
Can  you  march  day  and  night 
And  outfight  me  in  the  fight, 

Alabam? 

If  you  should,  if  you  should,  Alabam, 

My  sunflower  on  your  bosom  I'll  be  pinning; 

Might  feel  sore  —  but  I  would,  Alabam  — 
I'd  honor  both  the  hero  and  the  winning. 


FUNS  TON  AND  HOB  SON.  185 

Here 's  to  you,  here  's  to  you, 
And  to  what  we  both  can  do, 

Alabarn. 


ALABAMA    TO    KANSAS. 

Bet  your  life,  bet  your  life,  Kansas  boy, 

The  Yankee  and  the  Johnnie  are  for  Cuba. 
Just  hail  me  with  your  fife,  Kansas  boy ; 
I'll  answer  with  my  Alabama  tuba. 
Count  me  in,  count  me  in, 
I  am  eager  to  begin, 

Kansas  boy. 

Here's  my  hand,  here  's  my  hand,  Kansas  boy, 

The  cotton-bloom  to  sunflower  sends  greeting  ; 
On  the  ocean  and  the  land,  Kansas  boy, 

Soon  the  grandees  and  the  dons  we  '11  be  meeting. 
North  and  South,  heart  to  heart, 
Nevermore  will  fight  apart, 

Kansas  boy. 

Get  your  flag,  get  your  flag,  Kansas  boy, 

If  you  fall  I  will  anchor  it  in  glory  ; 
'Tis  not  for  me  to  brag,  Kansas  boy  — 

I  fought  it  once  —  but  that 's  another  story. 
Light  is  come,  wrong  is  past, 
Now  I  'm  Union  to  the  last, 

Kansas  boy. 


ISO  RHYMES   OF  IRON  QUILL. 


MY  FIRST  WIFE. 

O  !  the  poise  of  her  head  — 

Down  her  queenly  neck  fell  a  brown  cascade, 
With  a  tinge  of  red ; 
When  she  lifted  her  finger  at  me  and  said, 

"Young  man,"  although  I  was  not  afraid, 
Yet  there  came  a  sort  of  hypnotic  thrill ; 

And  it  made  me  reflect  that  soon  or  late 

I  would  have  some  questions  to  ask  of  Fate 
In  regard  to  myself  and  a  woman's  will. 

I  had  heard  in  my  youth, 
That  around,  the  heart 
Of  each  wholesome  man  — 
And  I  know  it's  the  truth  — 
From  the  very  start, 
By  some  unknown  plan, 
There  is  knotted  and  tied 
A  single  lone  hair,  and  the  hair  is  red ; 
And  when  it  unties 
The  person  dies, 

Or  is  broken-hearted  —  the  same  as  dead  ; 
I  know  it  V  so,  for  I  've  seen  it  tried. 


MY  FIRST  WIPE.  187 

And  I  hold  it  trne  that  never  a  man 

Fought  life  and  fought  death,  and  fought  friend 

and  foe, 

For  a  woman's  smile  or  a  woman's  fan, 
Whether  to-day  or  long  ago, 

Unless  the  tresses  upon  her  head 
Showed  red,  or  at  least  a  shade  of  red. 

Now,  what  could  I  guess 

When  in  every  tress 
Of  my  first  wife's  hair  was  that  shade  of  red? 

And  what  could  I  know,  or  what  express 
When  around  my  heart  I  could  feel  the  twine 
And  the  twist  of  a  ligature  firm  and  fine, 
And  what  could  I  say,  or  what  could  be  said, 

When  as  clear  as  a  note 

From  her  velvet  throat, 
Came  the  words,  "Young  man," 
With  the  toss  of  her  head. 

O  !  the  follies  of  life  ! 

O  !   the  fatal  mistakes  ! 
O !   the  strain  and  the  strife 
And  the  sorrow  that  breaks 
And  wrenches  apart 
The  trusting  heart. 
But  yet  —  my  first  wife  — 
She  was  ever  serene ; 
She  never  would  cry  and  never  would  grieve. 


188  RHYMES   OF  IRON  QUILL. 

No  woman  was  ever  like  her,  I  ween  ; 
And  never  was  yet  any  daughter  of  Eve, 
As  I  used  to  repeat,  and  I  now  believe, 

More  worthy  than  she  to  be  christened  a  queen. 

She  never  eloped  —  we  did  not  part  — 

There  was  nothing  outward  of  grief  or  woe ; 
No  neighbors  whispered,  "I  told  you  so," 

And  the  tight  red  band  that  was  'round  my  heart  — 
It  never  untied  and  let  me  go. 

And  then,  of  course, 

There  was  no  divorce. 
I  gave  her  no  cause,  and  she  gave  me  none. 

Unless  I  could  say 

That  her  haughty  way 

Of  saying,  "  Young  man  !  "  though  perhaps  in  fun, 
Was  a  ground  for  divorce,  though  the  only  one. 

Oh,  the  golden  Now,  so  mute  and  so  dumb, 

As,  with  hopes  aglow 

And  with  hearts  ablaze, 
We  wait  for  the  futures  yet  to  come. 

Oh,  the  halcyon  days 

Of  the  happy  past 

That  go  so  fast, 

And  yet  so- slow  ! 
How  little  there  is  for  us  all  to  know ! 


MY  FIRST   WIFE.  189 

And  why  must  a  man 

Love  once  for  all  ? 

Once  —  only  once;  and  tell,  if  you  can, 
Why  a  woman  whose  hair  has  a  tinge  of  red, 

Be  she  ever  so  small 

Or  ever  so  tall, 

Will  keep  on  a-loving  until  she's  dead  — 
And  a  good  deal  longer,  I've  heard  it  said. 

So  happiness  seems 

To  hang  on  a  hinge, 
And  to  be  the  product  of  a  tinge; 
And  that  is  the  reason  why,  in  my  dreams 

I  see  the  floating,  as  of  a  fringe, 
A  brown  with  a  delicate  shade  of  red  ; 
And  I  feel  the  ligature  'round  my  heart. 
It  Ifas  n't  untied  or  snapped  apart, 
And  she  is  alive  —  not  dead. 

Of  course  she's  alive, 

And  her  children  five 

Are  up  at  the  house,  and  so  is  she; 

For  she  is  my  first  and  my  only  wife  — 
My  only  wife  —  upon  my  life  — 
For  —  no  second  wife  for  me. 


190  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


THE  PHOTO-GRAPH-U-IST. 

Yes,  very  many  pictures  this  photographist  took; 
He  glued  them  to  a  pasteboard,  and  stuck  them  in 

a  book, 
So  when  yon  wished  to  see  them,  all  you  had  to  do 

was  look. 

To  have  their  pictures  taken,  with  joyousness  and 

glee 
A  flock  of  little  maidens  came,  and  one  of  them, 

oh,  she  [be. 

Was  just  as  sweet  and  beautiful  as  beautiful  could 

Alas  !  our  photo-graph-u-ist  was  captured  from  the 

start, 
For  when  she  "  struck  her  attitude  "  with  such  an 

artless  art, 
She  glued  her  blue-eyed  picture  to  his  pasteboard 

and  his  heart. 

She  left  the  latter  picture  for  her  worshiper  to  keep. 
So  well  had  it  been  taken,  so  accurate,  so  deep  — 
It  robbed  him  of  his  happiness,  and  even  of  his 


THE  PHOTO-GRAPH-U-IST.  191 

Ah,  yes  !  that  bine-eyed  photograph  did  haunt  him 

day  and  night ;  , 
Although  he  closed  his  peepers,  it  floated  on  his 

sight. 
At  last  he  says :   "A  note  to  her  I  will  write  out 

outright. 


"O  blue-eyed  little  maiden,  I  never  would  invade 
The  old  time-honored  usages  that  courtesy  hath 

made, 

Unless  I  had  an  object  which  I  could  n't  have  de- 
layed. 


"Allow  me,  little  maiden,  now,  to  diffidently  say, 
How  ceaselessly  a  photograph  doth  haunt  me  night 

and  day, — 
How  vainly  mental  effort  tries  to  banish  it  away. 


"This  picture  in   my   memory  unceasingly  doth 

dwell, 
It  follows  like  a  shadow,  and  it  haunts  me  like  a 

spell; 
It 's  YOUKS,  O  blue-eyed  maiden,  whom  I  love  so 

wild  and  well. 


192  RHYMES    OF  IRONQUILL. 

"This   picture   from  my   memory  can  never   be 

effaced. 
You  've  left  a  mental  'negative,'  and  cruelly  have 

laced 
My  only  heart  with  yours,  within  that  crimson 

peasant  waist. 

"It  grieves  me  such  a  story  so  abruptly  to  relate; 
I  only  ask  a  syllable  —  yonr  answer  is  my  fate, 
And  happiness  or  sorrow  I  impatiently  await." 


There  is  a  stately  mansion  built  with  elegance  and 

grace, 

Its  present  situation  does  not  enter  in  the  case : 
It  may  be  Kansas  City,  or  some  other  noisy  place. 

There  is  a  spacious  parlor,  but  I  will  not  tell  you 

where, 

It 's  lighted  up  with  chandeliers  into  a  perfect  glare ; 
Two  persons  stand  before  a  crowd  that  is  assembled 

there. 

And  one  has  eyes  of  violet,  bright  as  an  amethyst, 
And  on  her  shoulders  float  her  chestnut  ringlets 

like  a  mist ; 
The  other,  he 's  our  hero,  yes,  our  photo-graph-u-ist. 


THE  PHOTO-GRAP1I-U-1ST.  193 

A  minister  is  saying  something  very  neat  and  terse ; 
It  sounds  just  like  a  poem,  but  it  does  n't  come  in 

verse ; 
It  ends  (if  I  remember)  with,  "for  better  or  for 

worse." 

Right  well,   my   photo-graph-u-ist,  right  well  the 

choice  you  made ; 
The  "negative"  is  now  "preserved, "you  need  not 

be  afraid  ; 
You  've  gone  and  got  the  substance,  and  the  shadow 

will  not  fade. 


HE  AND  SHE. 

When  I  am  dead  you'll  find  it  hard, 

Said  he, 
To  ever  find  another  man 

Like  me. 

What  makes  you  think,  as  I  suppose 

You  do, 

I'd  ever  want  another  man 
Like  you? 


194  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


THE  FLOPPEK. 

Bill  Rye  was  saying  in  a  store,  one  day  at  Baxter 

Springs, 
That  in  the  future  every  man  would  be  a-wearing 

wings. 
Of  course  I  took  the  statement  as  a  hard-shell 

Baptist  might, 

And  whacked  him  on  the  shoulder  and  observed, 
"You're  mighty  right." 

This  happened  Friday  afternoon: — on  Saturday,  a 

week, 
I  met  Bill  prancing  down  the  street,  a-looking  like 

a  freak. 
He  said :  "  I  want  to  shake  your  hand,  for  you're 

the  only  man 

That  ever  said  a  kindly  word  to  me  about  my 
plan. 

"You  said  that  I  was  'mighty  right';  and  I  am 

here  to  say, 

I  give  an  exhibition  on  the  public  square  to-day. 
I  'm  going  for  to  take  these  wings  and  climb  into 

the  sky, 

For  I  have  solved  the  problem,  and  my  name  is 
William  Rye." 


THE  FLOPPER.  195 

Bill  was  a  combination  of  despondency  and  hope ; 
At  times  he  grew  gregarious,  at  times  he  used  to 

mope. 
There    was  n't    any   office    that    he  thought  he 

could  n't  fill; 

He  looked  at  each  new  ism  and    embraced  it 
with  a  will. 

He  entered   all  new  parties.     He  pioneered  new 

creeds. 
He  ran  for  sheriff,  then  he  flopped  to  register  of 

deeds. 
And  then  he  tried  for  probate  judge ;  but  none 

of  it  would  work ; 

He  tried  to  be  a  minister,  then  flopped  to  postal 
clerk. 

I  liked  Bill's  multiplicity;  I  liked  his  gall,  and  — 

hence 
I  went  down  to  the  public  square  and  sat  upon  the 

fence. 
And  there  was  Bill  upon  a  box,  surrounded   by 

a  crowd, 

A-showing  wings,  and  talking  fast,  and  feeling 
very  proud. 

I  can't  repeat  the  speech  he  made ;  in  substance  it 

was  this : 
"  Oh,  here  is  an  occasion  that  a  person  should  n't 

miss. 


196  RHYMES   OF  IRONQUILL. 

I  Jll  show  you  something  finer  than  yon  ever  yet 

beheld ; 
For  I'm  a  flying  lu-ln,  and  I've  got  this  thing 

corralled." 

He  spread  his  wings,  he  mounted  up,  mile  after 

mile  the  same ; 
Then  all  at  once  he  flopped  and  turned,  and  head 

first  down  he  came. 
So  great  was  his  velocity  that  every  one  turned 

pale. 

He  went  through  soil,  eight  feet  of  clay,  and 
sixteen  feet  of  shale. 

A  dozen  men  who  knew  Bill  well,  said,  when  they 

saw  him  drop, 
That    William    always   seemed   to   try    to   get    a 

chance  to  flop. 
He  flopped  just  once  too  often.     The  Baxter 

people  went 

And  filled  the  hole  with  cinders,  and  raised  a 
monument. 

They  carved  a  line:   "Down  in  the  shale  reposes 

William  Eye  — 
He  did  n't  have  the  thing  corralled,  and  hence  he 

got  too  fly." 
And    then    the   Daily   Pioneer  observed,  with 

seeming  scoff: 

"Soar  disappointment  was  the  cause  that  took 
the  brother  off." 


THE  LOVIST.  197 


THE  LOVIST. 

[A   TKUE   STORY.] 

Look  here,  you  gentle  reader, 

A  story  I  must  tell, 
About  an  individual 

Who  loved  a  maiden  well. 

[He  admired  and  adored  her — doted  and  gloated  and 
floated;  one  of  his  favorite  observations  was,  that  her  dear 
image  was  frescoed  on  the  skylight  of  his  soul.] 

He  wrote  one  day  a  letter, 

And  sealed  it  with  a  seal, 
To  tell  the  girl  how  feelingly 

Towards  her  he  did  feel. 

[This  letter  partook  of  the  character  of  a  rhythmical  com- 
munication ;  it  might  have  been  called  an  ode,  or  an  apostro- 
phe, or  a  sonnet,  or  a  piece  of  versified  vacuity,  or  iambic 
inanity  —  but  it  wasn't  poetry. J 

The  young  man  said  :   "It  idle  is 

For  me  to  ever  start 
To  paint  in  one  short  idyl 

The  idol  of  my  heart." 

[The  adolescent  young  maniac  called  her  his  Ideal,  Idol, 
doll,  his  fairy,  seraph,  nymph,  grace,  and  —  showed  other  sur- 
face indications  of  having  the  old  complaint  in  its  most  fright- 
ful form.] 


198  RHYMES   OP  IRON  QUILL 

A  carpenter  of  teeth  was  he, 

A  den-tist,  and  I  'm  told 
That  in  his  den  he  often  said 

That  teeth  were  his  "best  hold." 

[He  exterminated  molars  and  abolished  incisors  without 
pain  or  delay.  His  motto  was,  "Pro  bono  publico"—  for  the 
public's  bones.] 

But  when  the  miss  the  miss-ive  read, 

The  maiden  sentimental, 
She  said,  said  she,  "If  he  gets  me, 

It  will  be  acci-dental." 

[She  told  this,  in  confidence,  to  a  young  lady  friend,  who 
put  on  her  hood  and  rushed  right  off  and  told  the  young  man, 
so  as  to  make  him  feel  happy.  He  asked  her  to  intercede  for 
him.  She  did  so,  but  the  "charmer"  simply  responded:] 

"Who  knows,  before  the  orange  blos- 
soms wither  in  my  wreath, 
What  irony  and  iron  he 

May  throw  into  my  teeth  ?  " 

[The  embassy  was  a  failure.  The  mutual  friend  told  him 
all  —  she  not  only  gave  him  the  "text,"  but  also  an  elaborate 
appendix,  with  notes,  index,  and  glossary.] 

And  when  the  young  man  heard  of  it, 

He  then  began  to  cry ; 
He  stopped  a-drawing  of  a  tooth, 

And  went  and  drew  a  sigh. 

,""Why,"  said  he,  "this  sarcasm,  this  scornful  utterance, 
this  taunt,  this  sneer,  this  gibe?  1  have,"  said  he,  "uary — not 
— no — nothing  to  live  for."] 


THE  LOVIST.  199 

He  then  took  sick;  he  tried  and  tried 

To  neutralize,  in  vain, 
The  pain  lie  felt,  by  wrapping  up 

Within  a  counter-pane. 

[  Ifc  would  n't  work ;  he  tried  to  die  by  an  effort  of  mind,  but 
his  miud  was  too  weak — his  constitution  was  stronger  than 
his  will.  Then  he  tried  whisky,  but  it  never  affected  him  — it 
never  found  his  brain;  it  went  skirmishing  through  his  system 
and  wore  itself  out  trying  to  find  some  ganglionic  nodule  to 
operate  on.  He  consequently  recovered  next  day  sufficiently 
to  go  down  town.] 

And  then  lie  bought  a  bowie-knife 
With  which  to  end  his  woes; 

Then  went  and  plunged  it  in  his  chest, 
[Which  was  half  full  of  clothes;] 

Then  went  and  bought  a  railroad  pass-, 
Ajpd  took  the  evening  train 

For  climes  where  golden  fortunes  are 
"Extracted  without  pain." 


300  RHYMES   OF  IRONQUILL. 


MELANCHOLY  THOUGHTS. 

INGAL.LS  vs.  VOORHEES. 
Cyclone  dense, 

Lurid  air, 

Wabash  hair, 
Hide  on  fence. 

THE  HOMEOPATHIC  DOCTOR. 
If  like  cures  like, 

Explain  to  me,  my  brother, 
How  is  it  doctors 

Cannot  cure  each  other? 

EXPERIENCE. 
Billy  kicked  a  bull-dog 

Through  the  picket  fence ; 
William  has  less  toes  on, 

But  still  he  has  more  sense. 

THE  CONVENTION. 
In  Kansas  conventions, 

That  man,  as  a  rule, 
Who  plays  the  "dark  horse" 

Is  a  cream-colored  mule. 


MELANCHOLY  THOUGHTS.  201 

IO-CENT  COKN. 
The  laws  must  be  lame, 
Or  some  one  to  blame, 

When  a  bushel  will  buy 
But  one  drink  of  "the  same." 

THE  POET. 
There  was  a  poet ; 

Through  the  midnight  gloom 
Much  oil,  much  midnight  oil, 

Did  he  consume. 

The  world  beheld    . 

No  product  of  that  toil  — 
Alas !  the  oil  consumed 

Was  fusel  oil. 

TEFFT  HOUSE. 
Says  Logroller  Jim  to  Boodle'um  Bill, 

"Will  you  run  this  fall  for  the  Legislature?" 
Says  Boodle'um  Bill, 
"I  don't  think  I  will, — 
"  But  I'll  go  and  appeal  to  their  hire  nature." 

THE  WAY  OF  IT. 

Says  Chuck-a-luck  Bill  to  his  vagabond  pard, 
'They  say  that  the  way  of  transgressors  is  hard." 
Says  Weary  Watkins,  "I  Ve  found  it  such  — 
It 's  'cause  the  way  is  traveled  so  much." 


202  RHYMES  OF  JRONQUZLL. 

THE  MIND-READER.      * 
He  could  not  tell  a  lie, 

George  Washington  of  old ; 
Yet  smarter  far  ana  I, 
For  I  can  tell  a  lie 

Soon  as  I  hear  it  told. 

RHYME. 

A  man  who  was  wise  and  yet  frisky 
Desired  a 'new  rhyme  upon  "whisky"; 
So  he  went  where  't  was  made, 
And  he  stayed  and  he  stayed, 
And  he  finally  struck  it — Paris,  Ky. 

AI/TRUISM. 
When  a  one-eyed  chap  living  in  Trego 

A-cheating  at  poker  did  try, 
A  very  bad  man  from  Waraego 
Just  swiped  out  his  alter  ego  — 

Or  rather,  his  other  eye. 

THE  BOOMEB. 

There  's  an  unauthentic  rumor 
That  a  Kansas  City  "boomer" 

Went  a-diving  after  pearls; 
As  he  could  n't  hold  his  breath, 
Why,  of  course,  he  met  his  death ; 

Now  he  's  booming  other  worlds. 


MELANCHOLY  THOUGHTS. 

A  TBIOLET. 
Each  second  a  sucker  is  born 

In  the  world  outside  of  Kansas; 
We  've  got  to  acknowledge  the  corn, 
Each  second  a  sucker  is  born  ; 
But  we  laugh  the  fact  to  scorn, 

And  we  don't  care  where  it  lands  us- 
Each  second  a  sucker  is  born. 

But  he  is  not  born  in  Kansas. 


LOVELY  WOMAN. 

And  as  around  our  manly  neck  she  throws 
Her  dimpled  arms  with  artless  unconcern, 
And  kisses  us  and  asks  us  to  be  hern, 
And  pats  us  on  the  jaw,  do  you  suppose 

That  we  say  "  No,"  grow  frightened  on  the  spot, 
And  faint  away?     Well,  we  should  reckon  not. 
Young  man,  como  Westl  —  you  've  got  a  lot  to 
learn. 


THE  Romans  had  a  joke 
That  sounds  peculiar: 

They  spoke  of  lovely  woman 
As  a  "mulier." 


204  RHYMES   OF  IRONQUILL. 


AESOP'S  FABLES. 

The  falsehoods  of  the  immortal  Msop  bear  such  an  appear- 
ance of  innocence  and  truth  that,  as  examples,  they  have  been 
handed  down  from  antiquity,  undimmed  by  suspicion  and  un- 
shaken by  criticism. 

To  the  young  and  rising  youth,  whbm  tender  years  for  future 
efforts  are  shaping,  who  are  yet  to  go  to  the  legislature,  to  edit 
newspapers,  run  for  office,  and  hold  positions  of  perquisites 
and  emoluments  —  more  especially  those  who  are  to  be  the  sole 
hope  for  candidates  in  the  future  —  a  study  of  ^sop's  success- 
ful efforts  are  invaluable.  Having  had  to  gain  experience  from 
conversations  with  candidates,  campaign  speeches  and  tele- 
grams, the  translator  can  imagine  how  gladly  HE  would  have 
hailed  these  models  of  successful  ability,  in  former  years. 

The  misstatements  and  mendacity  of  2Esop  have  never  been 
surpassed ;  as  such  they  are  here  translated  for  the  scholars  of 
the  Paint  Creek  school,  and  thrown  like  bread  upon  the  angry 
billows  of  the  Yellow  Paint.— TRANSLATOR. 


PERSIMMONS. 
[Fable  No.  1.] 

Once  a  fox,  upon  the  sly, 

Some  persimmons  did  behold, 
So  he  got  a  pole  and  poled ; 

But  he  gave  up  with  a  sigh, 

And  acknowledged  his  mistake  — 
The  persimmons  would  n't  rake. 


FABLES.  205 

MORAL. 

Then  in  sorrow  he  did  say, 
As  he  slowly  walked  away, 

Fruit  of  that  kind  will  elude 
All  our  efforts,  I  am  told, 
If  the  pole  with  which  it 's  poled 

Has  n't  got  the  longitude. 

AGRICOLA  ET  FILIUS. 
[Fable  No.  2.] 

Brown  he  runs  a  farm  and  ranch 
By  the  billows  of  Lath  Branch, 
And  he  had  a  son  named  Jim, 
Who  had  never  learned  to  swim ; 
And  one  Sunday  Jim  was  found 
Down  in  Lath  Branch  partly  drowned. 

But  old  Brown  knew  what  to  do ; 
For  he  somewhere  cut  a  limb, 
And  he  somehow  stayed  with  Jim, 

And  he  somewhat  brought  him  to. 

MORAL. 

Do  not  run  a  farm  and  ranch 

By  the  billows  of  Lath  Branch. 

Men  named  Brown  with  boys  named  Jim, 
Ought  to  teach  their  boys  to  swim. 

Boys  named  Jim  most  always  drown 

If  their  other  name  is  Brown. 


206  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

ANGUIS  ET  ANGUISH. 
[  Fable  No.  A] 

Old  man  Snyder  found  a  snake, 
Frozen  stiffer  than  a  stake, 

And  he  tucked  it  in  his  breast, 
And  he  buttoned  up  his  vest. 
When  the  saurian  became  thawed, 
Mr.  Snyder  became  chawed, 

And  in  one  unbroken  stream 
He  proceeded  to  blaspheme, 
And  eradicate  the  plug 
From  a  little,  old  brown  jug. 

Then  he  took  a  modest  "snort," 
Of,  perhaps,  about  a  quart, 

And  conversed  as  if  he  —  well  — 

Had  profanity  to  sell. 
Year  by  year,  with  all  his  might, 

Snyder  tried  to  cure  that  bite, 
But  he  did  n't  have  the  heft ; 

So  one  day,  beside  the  jug, 

He,  while  heaving  at  the  plug, 
Caught  the  jim-james  and  got  left. 

MORAL. 

Frozen  saurians  are  safer; 

And,  it 's  bitterer  than  borax 
To  be  gnawed  about  the  thorax, 

One's  humanity  to  pay  for. 


M SOP'S  FABLES. 

THE  LIGHTNING-BUG  AND  THE  SKEETER. 
[Fable  No.  £] 

Once  a  lightning-bug  did  fly 

With  a  skeeter  down  the  street, 
One  hot  evening  in  July, 

And  these  words  he  did  repeat : 
"See  me  shine  I  see  me  shine  !  " 
But  the  skeeter  gave  no  sign 
Of  ambition  or  design, 

And  these  words  he  did  repeat : 
"None  in  mine  1  none  in  mine  I " 

Then  an  urchin,  quick  as  scat, 

With  an  agitated  face 
And  an  antiquated  hat, 

To  the  lightning-bug  gave  chase, 

Then  the  skeeter  joined  the  race ; 
Looked  the  ragged  urchin  o'er ; 

Picked  an  unprotected  place, 
And  he  helped  himself  to  gore. 


Life  is  somewhat  Janus-faced : 

Look  the  situation  o'er, 

Join  the  throng,  and  go  for  gore, 
Or — be  brilliant  and  get  chased. 


RHYMES   OF  1RONQU2LL. 

PAVO. 

[Fable  No.  5.] 

Said  a  peacock  unto  Juno, 

"What's  the  reason  I  can't  sing? 
See !  a  tail  I  can  unfold 
That  is  gorgeous  .to  behold. 
Tell  me,  tell  me,  if  you  do  know, 
What 's  the  reason  I  can't  sing, 
When  I  'in  such  a  gorgeous  thing  ? " 

Juno,  answering  the  bird, 

Half  in  earnest,  half  in  fun, 
Said  "  Injustice  would  be  done 

If  all  favors  were  conferred, 
Of  the  many,  upon  one." 


Notwithstanding  what  we  wish, 
In  this  world  of  fact  and  fate, 
Some  must  fish  and  some  dig  bait  — 

Just  a  few  of  us  can  fish. 

See  that  orphan  boy  at  work, 
Working  early,  working  late  ? 
He  is  learning  how  to  wait ; 

He  is  learning  not  to  shirk. 


FABLES.  209 

Then  observe  the  rich  man's  son, 
Aping  style  and  making  bets — 
Smoking  idle  cigarettes, 

Talking  chaff  and  having  fun. 

Years  that  orphan  boy  will  wait ; 

Then  he  '11  take  that  rich  man's  son, 

And  will  terminate  that  fun, 
And  will  set  him  digging  bait. 

Then  the  rich  man's  son  will  wish, 
As  the  iron  days  go  by, 
And  the  tears  come  in  his  eye, 

That  he  had  a  chance  to  fish. 

But  his  wish  will  come  too  late ; 
For  the  orphan,  who  meanwhile 
Does  the  fishing,  smiles  a  smile, 

And  compels  him  to  dig  bait. 


THE  AXE-I-DENT. 
[  Fable  No.  6.} 

Day  by  day  was  Thomas  seen 

On  the  head  of  Wolverine, 

And  the  old  primeval  rung 
As  his  five-pound  axe  he  slung; 


210  RHYMES   OF  IRONQUILL. 

And  he  worked  with  smile  and  song, 
Making  "  wood-cuts  "  all  day  long. 
But  the  wood  grew  hard  to  chip, 
So  he  went  to  grind  his  axe ; 
But  his  care  becoming  lax, 
Something  ran  afoul  the  crank, 
And  it  gave  the  axe  a  yank, 
And  the  helve  it  gave  a  flip, 
And  it  reached  him  on  the  lip ; 
Then  the  unreflecting  youth 
Swallowed,  thoughtlessly,  a  tooth, 
And  he  sort  of  lost  his  grip. 

To  the  doctor  Thomas  goes, 
And  discourses  all  his  woes, 

Worldly,  physical  and  mental ; 
But  the  doctor  shook  his  head, 
And  he  very  gravely  said : 
"  You  have  got  a  fell  disease, 
For  in  axe-i-dents  like  these 

Pains  are  always  inside-dental." 

SEQUEL. 

And  he  made  a  lot  of  pills 
Out  of  3-x  Graham  flour, 
Saying,  "Take  one  every  hour: 

They  will  cure  you  of  your  ills." 


JESOP'S  FABLES.  211 


Any  man  will  lose  his  grip 

If  he  does  n't  feel  inclined, 
When  he  has  an  "axe  to  grind," 

To  be  careful  of  his  "lip." 

THE  INVIDIOUS  CANINE. 
[Fable  No.  7.] 

O'er  the  rough  and  rocky  ridge, 
Leading  downward  with  a  path 

To  the  brittle  little  bridge 
That  is  hung  across  the  Lath, 
Came  a  large,  inclement  bull-dog,  full 
of  wrath ; 

But  the  canine  never  tarried  — 

In  his  mouth  he  something  carried : 
Like  a  miner,  wide  awake, 
He  had  been  and  raised  a  steak. 

Crossing  on  the  bridge,  his  glance 
To  the  water  thrown  by  chance, 

Saw  another  dog  and  meat 

In  precipitate  retreat ; 
Then  his  onward  course  he  slants, 
And  attempts  to  head  them  off  — 

And  his  corpus  now  conceals 

Half  a  barrelful  of  eels. 


212  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


No  one  merchant  yet  was  made 
Who  could  gobble  all  the  trade. 

Painfully  misfortune  pelts 

Those  who  reach  for  some  one  else ; 
No  one  bull-dog  yet  could  eat 
Every  other  bull-dog's  meat. 

If  you  have  a  good-sized  bone, 

Let  the  other  dog  alone. 


LIMBURGER. 
[Fable  No.  8.] 

On  a  tree  there  sat  a  crow, 
In  his  bill  a  chunk  of  cheese; 

On  the  ground,  a  fox  below 

Said,  "Some  music,  if  you  please. 

You  are  beautiful  of  wing, 

And  I  bet  that  you  can  sing." 

Cheered  by  flattery,  the  crow 
Sang,  and  dropped  the  cheese  below ; 
Then  the  cunning  fox  did  freeze 
To  that  fallen  chunk  of  cheese, 
And  he  calmly  lugged  it  off, 
And  he  scoffed  the  song  with  scoff. 


JZSOP'S  FABLES.  213 


When  they  pat  you  on  the  back, 
When  they  say  that  you  're  the  one, 

When  they  say  they  're  on  the  track, 
And  "have  been  obliged  to  run"; 

When  their  compliments  denote 
They  are  going  for  your  vote, 

You  can  do  just  as  you  please. 

But — you  'd  better  watch  your  cheese. 


THE  SWELL. 

[Fable  No.  9.] 

On  the  walk  a  hat  did  lie, 
And  a  gall  us  chap  sailed  by, 
And  he  cut  a  lively  swell  — 
He  was  clerk  in  a  hotel ; 

So,  he  gave  that  hat  a  kick, 
And  he  came  across  a  brick  — 
Now  upon  a  crutch  he  goes, 
Minus  half  a  pound  of  toes. 


When  you  see  a  person  thrown 

By  misfortune  or  by  vice, 

Help  him  thrice  or  seven  times  thrice ; 
Help  him  up  or  let  alone. 


214  RHYMES  OF  IKONQUJLL. 

If  you  give  the  man  a  kick 
You  may  stumble  on  a  brick, 
Or  a  stone. 

Fate  is  liable  to  frown, 
And  the  best  of  us  go  down ; 
And  in  just  a  little  while 
She  is  liable  to  smile. 
And  the  bad  luck  and  the  vice 
Seem  to  scatter  in  a  trice, 
And  to  hunt  their  holes  like  mice. 
And  the  man  you  tried  to  kick 
Now  has  changed  into  a  brick. 


THE  LIFE-INSURANCE  AGENT  AND  THE  POST 
AUGER. 

[Fable  No.  10.] 

"Very  skillfully  and  fast, 

Boring  post-holes  in  the  soil, 
Worked  an  honest  son  of  toil ; 

An  insurance  agent  passed, 

Saying,  "Such  a  'perfect  bore* 
I  have  never  seen  before." 

Then  he  sort  of  caught  his  breath, 

And  he  talked  that  man  to  death. 


FABLES.  215 


Strange  it  is,  somehow  or  other 
We  are  bound  to  make  a  fuss, 

When  we  notice  in  another 
Vices  that  belong  to  us. 


THE  COWCATCHER. 
{Fable  No.  11.} 

Cast  your  eagle  eye  on  me  — 

Leaders  there  must  always  be. 
I  have  such  a  massive  brain, 
I  can  stand  the  tug  and  strain. 
See  the  engine  and  the  train 

As  they  meekly  follow  me. 

Leaders  there  must  always  be. 

It 's  a  part  of  nature's  plan 

That  I  occupy  the  van. 

Born  to  rule,  and  born  to  lead, 
Born  to  flourish  and  precede, 
The  momentum  and  the  speed 

Of  the  engine  and  the  train 

Are  the  products  of  my  brain. 


Those  the  world  has  pushed  ahead 
Thought  they  pulled  the  world  they  led. 


216  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

They  were  either  fast  or  slow, 
As  the  world  would  have  them  go ; 
But  they  never  seemed  to  know 
That  behind  them  came  the  force 
That  controlled  their  speed  and  course. 


NANKEEN. 
[Fable  No.  12.] 

Through  the  light-long  summer  day 

Sam  the  game  of  "draw"  did  play; 
Through  the  summer  Sammy  laughed, 
Sang,  and  played  the  game  of  "draft." 

Gay  and  jolly  and  serene  — 

With  his  breeches  of  nankeen. 

Through  the  doleful  winter  days 
Still  at  poker  Sammy  plays ; 

Gone  his  songs,  and  smiles  so  bland ; 

He  is  waiting  for  a  hand ; 
And  the  winter  skies  are  chill  — 
And  he  wears  that  nankeen  still. 

MORAL. 

Draft  and  nankeen  go  together 

Very  well  in  summer  weather, 
But  when  winter-time  sets  in 
Draft  and  nankeen  get  too  thin. 


JSSOP'S  FABLES. 

CAPERS  ET  CAPER. 
[Fable  No.  IS.} 

From  a  chimney  on  the  roof 

Of  the  Wilder  House  hotel, 

Did  a  William  goat  espy 

An  old  army  mule  go  by; 

Spied  those  vast  and  sail-like  ears  — 
And  he  jeered  the  mule  with  jeers. 

Then  the  mule  he  made  a  tack, 

Brought  his  jib  'round  to  the  wind, 

Main  and  mizzen  ears  a-back, 

And  his  starboard  eye  he  skinned ; 

Then  he  reached  that  goat  a  hoof 

Which  dismissed  him  from  the  roof. 

SOLILOQUY. 

Morals  two  this  tale  will  teach : 

First,  There  is  n't  any  rule 
That  will  cipher  out  the  reach 

Of  an  ancient  army  mule ; 
Second,  There  are  many  dangers 
In  mis-estimating  strangers. 


RHYMES   OF  IRONQUILL. 

SUCKER  AND  SALAMANDER. 
AN  AQUARIUM  STORY. 

[Fable  No.  14.] 

In  an  ornamental  jar, 

Filled  with  blazing,  red-hot  tar, 

Did  a  salamander  swim ; 
In  a  thousand  jolly  ways 
He  disported  in  the  blaze  — 

It  was  fun  alive  for  him. 

With  a  less  display  of  rank, 
Swam  a  sucker  in  a  tank, 

And  unto  himself  he  said : 
"Would  that  I  were  in  his  place, 
Swimming  in  that  blazing  vase, 

And  that  he  were  in  my  stead." 

An  attendant  heard  the  speech, 
And  he  changed  them  each  with  each. 
Then  the  salamander  sank 
To  the  bottom  of  the  tank, 

In  inanimate  repose; 
While  the  sucker  curled  and  died, 
Looking  just  as  peeled  and  fried 

As  a  Democratic  nose. 


AESOP'S  FABLES.  219 

MORAL. 

Souls  of  fire  may  dare  the  fire, 
May  aspire 

To  rule  the  fire  ; 
But  the  element  consumes 
Any  SUCKER  who  presumes. 

ZEPHYR. 
[Fable  No.  15.} 

Once  a  Kansas  zephyr  strayed 
Where  a  brass-eyed  bird  pup  played, 
And  that  foolish  canine  bayed 

At  that  zephyr,  in  a  gay, 

Semi-idiotic  way. 
Then  that  zephyr,  in  about 
Half  a  jiffy,  took  that  pup, 
Tipped  him  over,  wrong  side  up; 
Then  it  turned  him  wrong  side  out. 
And  it  calmly  journeyed  thence, 
With  a  barn  and  string  of  fence. 

MORAL. 

When  communities  turn  loose 
Social  forces  that  produce 

The  disorders  of  a  gale, 
Act  upon  the  well-known  law: 
Face  the  breeze,  but  close  your  jaw. 

It 's  a  rule  that  will  not  fail : 


RHYMES    OF  IRON  QUILL. 

If  you  bay  it,  in  a  gay, 

Self-sufficient  sort  of  way, 

It  will  land  you,  without  doubt, 
Upside  down  and  wrong  side  out. 


THE  UNSOCIABLE  MILESTONES. 

[Fable  No.  16.] 

Strung  along  a  highway  stood 
Twenty  milestones,  made  of  wood, 

Undisturbed  by  storm  or  weather ; 
And  the  jokers  said  their  say, 
As  they  passed  along  the  way : 
"How  unsociable  are  they  — 

Milestones  never  get  together." 

But  the  milestones  cared  not  whether 
It  were  worst  or  it  were  best  — 
Undisturbed  by  jeer  or  jest, 

Two  were  never  seen  together. 
Duty  made  them  what  they  were, 
And  they  did  not  care  to  stir. 


Men  there  are  whose  work,  whose  place 
Is,  like  milestones,  to  mark  out 
Both  the  distance  and  the  route ; 


FABLES.  221 

Both  the  destiny  and  way, 
In  the  progress  of  the  race. 

If  they  mingle  with  the  throng 

That  moves  thoughtlessly  along, 
Then  their  duty  they  betray. 
Lonesome,  very  lonesome,  they; 

But,  unmoved  by  hope  or  fear, 

Undisturbed  by  jest  or  jeer, 
There  their  duty — and  they  stay. 


222  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


IN  THE  SUPREME  COUET,  STATE  OF 
KANSAS. 


GEORGE  LEWIS,  Appellant, 

vs. 
STATE  OF  KANSAS,  Appellee. 


Appeal  from  Atchison  County. 


Law— paw;  guilt— wilt.  When  upon  thy  frame  the  law— 
places  its  majestic  paw— though  in  innocence  or  guilt— thou 
art  then  required  to  wilt. 

STATEMENT    OF    CASE,    BY    REPORTER. 

This  defendant,  while  at  large, 
*     Was  arrested  on  a  charge 
Of  burglarious  intent, 
And  direct  to  jail  he  went. 
But  he  somehow  felt  misused, 
And  through  prison  walls  he  oozed, 
And  in  some  unheard-of  shape 
He  effected  his  escape. 

Mark  you  now ! —  again  the  law 
On  defendant  placed  its  paw, 
Like  a  hand  of  iron  mail, 
And  resocked  him  into  jail ; 


LEWIS  v.    STATZ.  223 

Which  said  jail,  while  so  corralled, 
He  by  sock-age  tenure  held. 

Then  the  court  met,  and  they  tried 
Lewis  up  and  down  each  side, 
On  the  good,  old-fashioned  plan ; 
But  the  jury  cleared  the  man. 

Now,  you  think  that  this  strange  case 
Ends  at  just  about  this  place. 
Nay,  not  so.     Again  the  law 
On  defendant  placed  its  paw — 
This  time  takes  him  round  the  cape 
For  effecting  an  escape ; 
He,  unable  to  give  bail, 
Goes  reluctantly  to  jail. 

Lewis,  tried  for  this  last  act, 
Makes  a  special  plea  of  fact : 
''Wrongly  did  they  me  arrest, 
As  my  trial  did  attest ; 
And  while  rightfully  at  large, 
Taken  on  a  wrongful  charge, 
I  took  back  from  them  what  they 
From  me  wrongly  took  away." 

When  this  special  plea  was  heard, 
Thereupon  THE  STATE  demurred. 


224  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

The  defendant  then  was  pained 
When  the  court  was  heard  to  say, 
In  a  cold,  impassive  way, 
"The  demurrer  is  sustained." 

Back  to  jail  did  Lewis  go ; 
But,  as  liberty  is  dear, 
He  appeals,  and  now  is  here 

To  reverse  the  court  below. 
The  opinion  will  contain 
All  the  statements  that  remain. 

ARGUMENT    AND    BEIEF    OF    APPELLANT. 

"As  a  matter,  sir,  of  fact, 
Who  was  injured  by  our  act — 
Any  property  or  man? 
Point  it  out,  sir,  if  you  can. 
Can  you  seize  us,  when  at  large, 
On  a  baseless,  trumped-up  charge; 
And,  if  we  escape,  then  say 
It  is  crime  to  get  away  — 
When  we  rightfully  regained 
What  was  wrongfully  obtained  ? 

Please-the-court-sir,  what  is  crime? 

What  is  right,  and  what  is  wrong  ? 

Is  our  freedom  but  a  song, 
Or  the  subject  of  a  rhyme  ?  " 


LEWIS  v.    STATE.  225 

ARGUMENT    AND    BRIEF    OF    THE    ATTORNEY    FOR   THE 
STATE. 

"  When  THE  STATE,  that  is  to  say, 
WE,  takes  liberty  away  — 
When  the  padlock  and  the  hasp 
Leave  one  helpless  in  our  grasp, 
It's  unlawful  then  that  he 
Even  dreams  of  liberty ; 
Wicked  dreams  that  may  in  time 
Grow  and  ripen  into  crime  — 
Crime  of  dark  and  damning  shape ; 
Then  if  he  perchance  escape, 
Evermore  remorse  will  roll 
O'er  his  shattered,  sin-sick  soul. 

Please-the-court-sir,  how  can  we 
Manage  people  who  get  free? " 

REPLY    OF   APPELLANT. 

"Please-the-court-sir,  if  it's  sin, 
Where  does  turpitude  begin  ?  " 

PER    CURIAM.       (OPINION    OF   THE    COURT.) 

"  We — don't — make — law ;  we  are  bound 
To  interpret  it  as  found. 

The  defendant  broke  away; 
When  arrested  he  should  stay. 


RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

This  appeal  can't  be  maintained, 
For  the  record  does  not  show 
Error  in  the  court  below, 
And  we  nothing  can  infer. 

Let  the  judgment  be  sustained  ; 
All  the  justices  concur." 

[Note  ly  the  Reporter^ 

Of  the  sheriff,  rise  and  sing: 
'  Glory  to  our  earthly  king  1 " 
(19Kas.  266.) 


HIC  JONES.  227 


AN  AGEEED  STATEMENT  OF  FACTS 

AS    TO    THE    ADMISSION    OF   MR.    HIO    JONES    TO    THE 
PAINT    CKEEK    BAB,    KANSAS. 

Jones  was  young  and  unassuming,  but  the  shrewd 

observer  saw 
Something  that  appeared  abnormal  in  the  structure 

of  his  jaw. 

When  the  court  convened,  old  Snipe- 'em,  with  a 

voice  like  a  guitar, 

Offered  Jones's  application  for  admission  to  the  bar. 
Then  the  court  looked  wise  and  owly,  and  in  slow, 

judicial  tones 
Ordered  Snipe- 'em,  Brown  and  Spot- 'em  first  to 

analyze  young  Jones ; 
Saying,  "  Gentlemen,  be  thorough ;  at  the  opening 

of  the  court 
We  will  skip  the  motion  docket,  and  consider  your 

report." 

Sheriff  Grabb  then  showed  the  party  to  the  "ante"- 

rooin  —  up-stairs, 
Where  a  table  stacked  with  gun-wads  had  been 

checkmated  with  chairs. 


228  RHYMES   OF  IRON  QUILL. 

It  was  four  o'clock  precisely;    Spot-'em  gently 

turned  the  key, 
Saying,  "Frauds,  I'll  act  as  banker — waltz  your 

ducats  up  to  me." 

The  analysis  proceeded  up  to  twelve  01  thereabout, 

When  the  stock  of  ardent  spirits  unexpectedly  gave 
out. 

Spot-'em  wrote  a  note  to  Julius,  saying,  "Julius,  if 
you  please, 

Send  us  up  a  red-hot  lunch  for  four;  we  're  raking 
down  for  threes." 

And  an  order  for  frumenti  and  cigars  was  sent  by 
Brown, 

Drawn  on  Thomas,  of  the  "  Wilder,"  chief  nose- 
artist  of  the  town. 

The  committee  stopped  for  supper,  readjusted  all 
their  loans, 

And  continued  with  fresh  vigor  their  researches  for 
young  Jones. 

Just  about  this  time,  "  the  district  clerk  of  the  afore- 
said court" 

By  some  unknown  coincidence  dropped  in  to  see 
the  sport 

Having  hefted  thefrumenti,  he  did  cheerfully  reply 
To  their  bland  interrogations  in  regard  to  "  chicken- 
pie." 


HIC  JONES.  229 

Unpaid  fees  in  Spot-'em's  cow  case  were  discounted 

then  by  Brown, 
Which  the  clerk  took  out  in  gun-wads,  most  of  which 

young  Jones  raked  down. 


A.t  the  hour  of  three  precisely,  after  four  successful 
raids,  • 

Spot- 'em  raked  down  Snipe- 'em's  shirt  studs  on  a 
hand  composed  of  spades ; 

Snipe- 'em  took  a  dose  of  tonic  and  reluctantly  re- 
signed, 

While  the  clerk,  with  sad  bravado,  went  a  collar- 
button  blind. 


Hour  by  hour  the  game  continued ;  Jones  came  in 
on  every  draw, 

But  no  syllable  proceeded  from  that  strange,  ab- 
normal jaw. 


On  a  bench  snoozed  Snipe- 'em,  sadly,  in  the  corner 
of  the  room, 

While  the  smoked-up  coal-oil  chimney  cast  a  deep, 
sepulchral  gloom ; 

And  at  times  his  troubled  slumbering  evoked  un- 
conscious moans, 

As  if  saying,  "It  is  difficult — this  analyzing  Jones." 


230  RHYMES    OF  IRONQUILL. 

At  last  the  time  at  which  the  court  should  reas- 
semble came ; 

It  did  not  seem  to  influence  the  progress  of  the 
game ; 

They  had  not  yet  made  up  their  minds  concerning 
their  report. 

And  here  we  leave  them  briefly  while  we  look  in 
on  the  court. 


A  pro  tern,  judge  was  on  the  bench ;  two  members 
of  the  bar 

Assaulted  twelve  one-gallows  men  with  words  of 
legal  war. 

The  way  was  this :  It  seems  that  Smith,  in  open- 
ing his  case, 

Had  told  the  jury  carelessly,  as  of  some  time  or 
place, 

That  he  had  seen  a  real,  dead  mule ;  his  language 
was  not  pat — 

Of  course  nobody  ever  saw  a  mule  as  dead  as  that. 

But  still  Smith  was  excusable — the  heat  of  a  debate 

May  lead  a  man  unconsciously  to  slightly  overstate. 

Zeal  for  a  client's  lawsuit — the  more  if  it  be  weak — 

May  make  a  lawyer's  language  go  impalpably  ob- 
lique. 

But  still,  upon  the  other  hand,  an  orator,  forsooth, 

Should  try  and  keep  his  statements  within  gunshot 
of  the  truth ; 


HIC  JONES.  231 

And  Smith  was  very  careless  in  observance  of  the 

rule 

To  make  so  rash  a  statement  in  regard  to  any  mule. 
Its  absurdness    never   struck  him,  for  he  never 

stopped  to  think ; 
All  at  once  he  dropped  upon  it  when  he  saw  a 

juror  wink. 
Now  if  Smith  had  been  sagacious,  he  immediately 

then 
Would  have  modified  that  statement  to  those  twelve 

one-gallows  men —      x 
Would  have  intimated  mildly  that  it  might  have 

been  a  horse, 
But  he  did  n't ;  conscience  smote  him,  and  he  sank 

'     down  with  remorse  — 
Folded  up  as  folds  a  primrose  when  the  gates  of 

day  are  shut ; 
Folded  up  as  folds  a  jack-knife  when  a  chaw  of 

plug  is  cut. 


The  greater  our  experience  the  more  we  surely  find 
Kemarks  should   be  adaptable  unto  the  hearer's 

mind. 
Twelve  preachers  might  have  took  it  in,  but  Smith 

could  never  fool 
Twelve  citizens  of  Turkey  Creek  with  reference  to 

the  mule. 


232  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

Then  up  rose  lawyer  Soak- 'em ;  his  lips  were  close 

compressed, 
His  left  hand  gripped  his  coat-tail,  his  right  was  on 

his  breast ; 
He  gazed  on  the  "palladium";  his  look  was  stern 

and  high  — 
In  thunder  tones  he  emphasized  Smith's  statement 

as  a  lie ; 
And  then,  in  terms  that  Soak-'em  took  occasion  to 

adorn, 
He  branded  him  —  denounced  him — held  him  up 

to  public  scorn, 

Pointed  his  finger  at  him,  and,  in  allegoric  sense, 
He  peeled  Smith's  epidermis  off  and  hung  it  on 

the  fence. 

Then  in  a  few  pathetic  words  he  made  allusion  to 
The  immortality  of  mules,  which  every  juror  knew. 
The  jury  cheered  the  diction  that  in  such  profusion 

came, 
And  Smith — he  writhed  in  agony  of  hopeless  grief 

and  shame. 

The  jury  then  were  eulogized  appropriately  neat  — 
Of  course  they  found  for  Soak-'em  without  rising 

from  their  seat. 
But  how  they  reached  the  merits  of  the  case  is  not 

so  clear, 
For  the  action  they  were  trying  was  replevin  for  a 

steer. 


HIC  JONES.  233 

And  then  the  restless,  coatless,  but  appreciative 

crowd 
Gave  Smith  "the  great,  big  horse-laugh,"  and  he 

sat  there  cold  and  cowed. 


Hereupon  came  Brown  and  Spot- 'em,  Jones  and 
Snipe- 'em  in  the  rear, 

Arm  in  arm,  each  with  his  necktie  dangling  down 
below  his  ear; 

Each  one  made  a  short,  spasmodic  pull  upon  his 
rumpled  vest, 

And,  fronting  up  before  the  judge,  the  whole  pla- 
toon right-dressed. 

"Hie — your  honor,"  said  old  Snipe-'em  with  a 
voice  diffused,  yet  sweet, 

"Hie  —  we've  ma'  der  'zamination  mor'  n'er  usual 
complete ; 

We  've  jus'  gone — hie — thro'  er  can'idate ;  's  pro- 
ficiency is  fair.' 

"Hie — you  bet,"  said  Brown,  who  eyed  the  court 
with  mild  and  fishy  glare. 


"Went  ri'  through  —  hie — Jones,"  said  Snipe'em ; 

"he  z'all  ri' — hie  —  on  'er  law; 
He  can  draw  'er  chattel  mortgage  —  or  three  aces 

ever'  draw ; 


234  RHYMES   OF  IRONQUILL. 

'Z  got  all  Spot-'em's  tex-books  and  reports ;  mine, 

too — hie — haint  he,  Brown? 
Young — hie — Jones    has   got    'er   principal  law 

lib'ry  now  in  town. 


"'Zgot  'er  daisy  moral  character — Jones  squarer 

'an  a  string ; 
Raised    old    Spot- 'em    seventeen    dollars,  an'  he 

did  n't  have  a  thing ; 
'Z    by  all    means    admit  —  hie — Jones    'er   bar; 

'ose  book  urns'  stay  in  town  ; 
Hie — old  Spot's  too  full  for  utterance."   "Zasso," 

responded  Brown. 


"Clerk,  swear  Hie  Jones,"  old  pro  tern,  said  in 

language  gruff  and  quick. 
(The  court  supposed  that  Jones's  antecedent  name 

was  "Hie.") 
Then  the  clerk  said  somewhat  vaguely,  "  You  do 

swear — hie  —  ffom  'is  date, 
You  will  solem'ny  support  'er  conistution  of  'er 

State ; 
Be  'er  lawyer  of  'er  bar  from   'is  date — hie — 

forthly  hence. 
[Hold  up  'er  han']  —  all  ri' — hie  —  bob  —  so  help 

you  —  fifty  cents." 


HIC  JONES.  235 

Then  the  judge  gave  Jones  a  chromo ;  Jones  re- 
ceived it  with  delight, 

And  the  whole  platoon  meandered,  with  a  right 
flank  —  hie — file  right. 


So  delighted  was  a  juror  that  the  shingle-nail  was 

bust 
That  did  duty  as  a  button  where  the  juror's  jeans 

were  trussed ; 
But  the  cardiac  formation  of  young  Smith  was 

turned  to  stone  — 
Ah !  how  lurid  Jones's  future,  and  how  dismal  was. 

his  own. 


Years  have  passed,  and  Smith  and  Spot- 'em  have 

exuded  from  the  State ; 
Brown  and  Soak-'em  work  for  Findlay,  in  the  coal 

bank,  lifting  slate; 
Snipe- 'em  got  in  debt  to  everyone,  but  Snipe- 'em 

never  frets  — 
They  made  him  go  to  Congress  so  that  he  could 

pay  his  debts. 


Jones  is  everywhere  considered  as  a  bright,  pe- 
culiar star ; 

He 's  got  one  case  they  say  will  make  his  fortune 
at  the  bar: 


236  RHYMES   OF  IRON  QUILL. 

Ejectment  for  a  dam-site  on  the  shores  of  Yellow 
Paint  — 

On  that  boulder-drifted  shore, 
Where  the  angry  billows  roar, 
And    the  women   loudly  snore,  whether  they're 
asleep  or  ain't. 


He  has  written  and  delivers  an  exceedingly  fine 
lecture 

On  "Proceedings  in  Tribunals  of  Penultimate  Con- 
jecture"; 

And  this  very  able  thesis,  though  epitomized  and 
short, 

Contains  the  law  for  all  the  courts  of  dernier  last 
resort. 


Let  us  hope  that  Jones's  future,  so  auspiciously 
begun, 

May,  like  Snipe- 'em's  outlawed  due-bills,  have  suf- 
ficient time  to  run. 


A    CORN  POEM.  237 


A  COKN  POEM. 

[Delivered  at  Centennial  J$h  of  July.] 

Our  President  and  Governor  have  said, 
In  proclamations  which  you  all  have  read, 
That  we  the  record  of  the  hundred  years, 
Its  hopes,  its  histories,  its  pioneers, 
Should  hear  in  public ;  wishing  to  obey, 
We  meet  together  on  the  present  day. 

As  local  annals  and  such  themes  as  those 

Are  more  attractive  when  addressed  in  prose, 

And  as  the  dense  statistics  of  the  times 

Are  somewhat  irreducible  to  rhymes, 

We  leave  those  subjects  to  their  proper  charge, 

And  take  the  liberty  to  roam  at  large. 

There  have  been  men  who  into  verse  complete 
Could  rhyme  a  township  map  or  tax  receipt ; 
But  no  such  man  is  here.     Ourself  to-day 
Must  treat  of  subjects  in  a  general  way. 
While  present  prices  rule  on  steers  and  grain, 
Divine,  first-class  emotion  can't  sustain. 
At  such  low  figures,  any  Kansas  muse 
All  pyrotechnic  efforts  must  refuse ; 


238  RHYMES   OF  IRONQUILL. 

Dates,  names,  statistics  and  such  themes  as  those 
Must  go  remanded  to  the  realms  of  prose; 
So  here  a  humble  poem  we  commence, 
Equivalent  to  corn  at  twenty  cents. 

Nate  Price  of  Troy,  at  Leavenworth  last  June, 

Told  of  a  backwoods  Arkansaw  saloon : 

Two  gay  "commercial  tourists,"  somewhat  dry, 

Stepped  in  for  drinks  as  they  were  passing  by. 

Says  one:   "Some  lemon  in  my  tumbler  squeeze." 

The  other  says:   "Some  sugar,  if  you  please." 

Each  got  a  pistol  pointed  at  his  head  — 

"You '11  take  her  straight,"  the  bar-keep  gravely 

said. 

The  gay  commercial  tourists  bowed  to  fate, 
And  quickly  took  their  drinks  and  exits  straight. 

The  humble  poem  that  we  here  begin 

Has  got  no  lemon  and  no  sugar  in. 

It 's  as  it  is,  and  we  beg  leave  to  state, 

On  this  "  auspicious  day  "  you  '11  take  it  straight. 


My  theme  to-day  is  History — not  the  shelf 
Whereon  she  sets  her  idols,  but  herself. 
If  I  examine  History  aright, 
I  read  of  one  long  and  unbroken  fight  — 
One  thrilling  drama ;  every  scene  and  act 
Contains  the  record  of  a  city  sacked. 


A    CORN  POEM.  239 

From  time  to  time  the  curtain  drops  amain 
On  cities  blazing,  with  defenders  slain; 

Yet,  ere  their  ashes  have  had  time  to  cool, 
They  start  again  to  opulence  and  rule. 
To  what  strange  power,  so  vitalized  and  strong, 
Do  these  recurrent  energies  belong? 
Whence  come  the  latent  forces  that  re-rear, 
From  ash  and  wave,  the  palace  and  the  pier? 

No  answer  back  the  old  historian  brings ; 

His  tale  is  but  of  battles  and  of  kings. 

His  prose  and  verse  were  written  to  proclaim 

Some  useless  battle,  or  some  kingly  name  — 

No  honor  given  to  the  brains  or  toil 

That  pluck  the  wealth  from  mountain,  sea,  and  soil. 

They   leave    that    out  —  but   throw    distinguished 

light 

Upon  the  least  minutiae  of  a  fight. 
They  name  the  leaders,  and  each  word  they  said  ; 
The  hour,  the  spot,  some  phalanx  charged,  or  fled ; 
The  time  and  place  some  squadron  came  in  view, 
And  what  it  did,  or  what  it  failed  to  do ; 
And  then  because  some  something  was  not  done, 
This  king,  or  that,  is  whipped  and  has  to  run. 
Then  come  three  cheers  for  the  successful  king, 
And  bugles  peel  —  like  slippery  elms  in  spring. 

Since  Cecrops  landed  on  the  Grecian  shore, 
Brought  on  a  stock  —  started  a  country  store  — 


240  RHYMES   OF  IRON  QUILL. 

Picked  out  a  site  by  some  prophetic  guess, 

And  boomed  old  Athens  to  a  grand  success, 

The  human  mind  has  always  sought  renown 

In  founding  States,  or  building  up  a  town. 

Full  four  and  thirty  centuries  have  passed 

Since  enterprising  Cecrops  breathed  his  last, 

And  many  cities  since  that  early  day 

Have  grown  up  grandly,  and  have  passed  away ; 

Yet  ancient  chroniclers  forget  to  state 

What  built  the  cities,  and  what  made  them  great. 

Of  those  of  whom  the  olden  stories  sing, 

The  greatest  hero  is  the  unknown  king. 

Of  him  of  whom  old  history  gives  no  clew  — 

This  Unknown  King  —  declare  I  unto  you. 

Who  framed  the  social  structure?  paid  the  bill? 

Who  organized  its  labor  and  its  skill  ? 

Who  built  the  ships  and  wharves?  Who  wove  the 

sail? 

Who  fed  the  armies  ?  and  who  forged  their  mail  ? 
No  answer  ancient  history  gives  back. 
These  unknown  kings  no  wealthy  cities  sack; 
And  history,  with  proud,  patrician  frown, 
Ignores  a  power  that  never  burned  a  town. 
Read  of  the  growth  of  States,  and  you  will  find 
Their  opulence  to  some  great  king  assigned; 
And  being  king,  by  accident  or  force, 
He  gets  the  credit,  as  a  thing  of  course. 


A    CORN  POEM.  241 

.Now,  when  the  truth  is  told,  it  shows  two  things : 
First,  States  are  rich  and  great  in  spite  of  kings ; 
And  next,  that  nations  opulent  are  made 
By  neither  kings  nor  battles,  but  by  trade. 

Old  Business  is  the  monarch.     He  rules  both 
The  opulence  of  nations  and  their  growth. 
He,  whom  we  call  endearingly  "Old  Biz," — 
He  does  the  work,  the  credit  all  is  his. 
He  builds  their  cities  and  he  paves  their  streets, 
He  feeds  their  armies  and  equips  their  fleets. 
Kings  are  his  puppets,  and  his  arm  alone 
Contains  the  muscle  that  can  prop  a  throne ; 
Soon  would  the  gilded  fabric  tumble  down 
Were  Business  not  the  regent  of  the  crown. 

Old  History,  stand  up.     We  wish  to  ask 
Why  you  so  meanly  have  performed  your  task. 
Under  your  arm  you  have  a  showy  book, 
In  which  we  now  insist  that  we  may  look ; 
We  'd  like  to  see  what 's  in  that  gilt-edged  tome. 
Say,  did  Old  Business  ever  reign  in  Home? 
You  say  he  didn't?     Well,  may  we  inquire 
If  the  aforesaid  Business  reigned  at  Tyre? 
"Don't  b'lieve  he  did"?     Well,  look  the  index 

through, 

And  see  if  he  is  mentioned  once  by  you. 
"Can't  find  his  name"?     Well,  that  is  somewhat 

queer. 
Say,  of  Old  Business  did  you  ever  hear  2 


242  RHYMES    OF  IRON  QUILL. 

You  never  did  ?     Well,  I  'm  inclined  to  think 
Pens  full  of  pigs,  and  not  pens  full  of  ink, 
Should  be  the  object  of  your  future  skill, 
And  that  your  book  should  feed  the  paper  mill. 
O  History  !  the  language  may  be  broad, 
But  we  must  here  impeach  you  as  a  fraud. 

There  is  a  cheerful  story  that  is  told 

About  a  great  Egyptian  king  of  old  ; 

He  thought  to  build  a  lighthouse  on  an  isle 

That  fronted  on  the  delta  of  the  Nile. 

He  thought  to  take  the  money  of  the  State, 

Build  something  big,  and  be  forever  great. 

He  called  for  architects,  selected  one, 

And  turned  him  over  treasure  by  the  ton. 

Upon  an  isle,  o'er  which  the  breakers  curled, 

Grew  up  the  second  wonder  of  the  world ; 

Far  o'er  the  land  and  distant  ocean  viewed, 

Five  hundred  feet  in  snow-white  marble  hewed  ; 

And  on  its  summit  watch-fires,  day  and  night, 

Directed  shipping  with  a  constant  light  — 

The  tower  of  Pharos,  capped  with  massive  ledge, 

Bearing  the  monarch's  name  upon  the  edge, 

And  o'er  the  sea  for  many  a  league  marine 

The  royal  name  of  Ptolemy  was  seen. 

The  architect,  unhonored  and  unknown, 

Died,  leaving  all  the  credit  to  the  throne ; 

The   man  whose    splendid    genius  planned   and 

wrought 
Was  not  considered  worthy  of  a  thought 


A    CORN  POEM.  243 

Then  died  the  king,  and  people  one  by  one 
Spoke  of  the  tower  as  something  he  had  done. 

There  stands  the  lighthouse,  but  each  new  decade 
Beholds  the  king's  inscription  slowly  fade. 
It  dimmer  grows,  until  it  fades  from  sight, 
And  then  a  new  inscription  comes  to  light ; 
The  architect  asserts  his  rightful  claim  — 
Where  stood  the  king's,  now  stands  the  builder's 

name. 

The  king's  name,  wrought  in  stucco-work  and  paint, 
Each  year  beheld  grow  dimmer  and  more  faint; 
Filled  with  cement,  this  sentence  had  been  hid : 
"For  mariners.     By  Sos-tra-tos,  of  Onid." 
The  rugged,  massive  letters,  carved  in  Greek, 
The  builder  and  his  residence  bespeak, 
While  in  the  dust,  upon  the  sea  and  shore, 
The  kingly  name  goes  scattered  evermore. 

Great  States,  whose  splendid  ruins  scattered  lie, 

Have  stood  like  wonders  in  the  days  gone  by ; 

And  every  State,  before  it  met  decay, 

Has  ruled  the  world  on  some  eventful  day  — 

Has  taken  rule  by  virtue  of  its  sons. 

Through  every  State  the  thread  of  empire  runs ; 

The  ancient  nations  and  the  ancient  creeds 

Are  strung  on  empire  like  a  row  of  beads ; 

And  on  the  ruins  that  in  silence  sleep 

The  name  of  Business  has  been  graven  deep. 


244  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

And  he  has  made  them  be  what  they  have  been ; 
Has  made  them  win  because  they  need  must  win. 
And  he  the  architect,  who  planned  and  wrought, 
Building  no  better  than  he  knew  and  thought  — 
And  over  all,  in  stucco-work  and  paint, 
The  names  of  kings  are  feebly  seen  and  faint. 

The  now  aggressive  spirit  of  the  age 
Adds  to  old  History  an  unwritten  page ; 
Chips  off  the  paint  and  plaster,  and  anew 
Kestores  the  name  of  Business  to  our  view. 

Vain  were  the  effort,  in  this  modern  age, 

To  tell  when  Business  came  upon  the  stage ; 

First  when  and  where  he  hung  his  shingle  out, 

Is,  like  a  jury  trial,  full  of  doubt. 

The  first  important  European  town, 

In  point  of  time  and  subsequent  renown, 

Was  Athens ;  and  when  founded,  facts  attest 

That  zeal  and  enterprise  were  tending  west. 

If,  for  a  point  of  time  to  fix  upon, 

We  take  the  era  of  King  Solomon, 

We  find  that  restless  movement  of  the  race 

Toward  the  western  world  is  taking  place ; 

The  emigration  has  become  so  vast, 

With  buccaneers  the  seas  are  swarming  fast ; 

Athens  grows  large,  and  public  spirit  calls 

For  graded  streets  and  more  extensive  walls ; 


A    CORN  POEM.  245 

Then  Greece  fills  up,  until  the  moving  host 

Is  banked  upon  the  Adriatic  coast. 

The  sea  but  for  a  moment  stops  the  tide ; 

Brundusium  springs  from  the  Italian  side. 

Then  west  by  north,  in  undiminished  size, 

The  volume  of  the  emigration  plies ; 

Back  o'er  the  line,  to  deep  Brundusium 's  bay, 

Rome  builds  and  paves  the  world-wide  Appian  Way. 

Checked  by  the  western  sea,  the  restless  tide 

Builds  up  a  chain  of  cities,  side  by  side. 

Then,  seeking  vent  on  scarce  divergent  lines, 

Boils  through  the  foot-hills  of  the  Apennines, 

Builds  Florence,  Milan,  Genoa,  Turin, 

Halts  at  the  Alps,  but  halts  to  re-begin ; 

Then,  like  a  pent-up  torrent,  the  advance 

Pours  through  the  Alps  and  floods  the  plains  of 

France. 

The  path  of  empire  follows  in  its  train ; 
The  western  world  it  gives  to  Charlemagne. 
Still  on  it  goes,  the  straits  of  Dover  crossed ; 
England  opposes,  but  her  cause  is  lost ; 
The  island  fills,  no  land  is  left — then  she 
Starts  out  to  grasp  the  empires  of  the  sea. 

Who  planned   this  movement?     What   impelled 

the  tide? 

Kings  tried  to  stop  it,  but  as  vainly  tried. 
—  How  quickly  is  the  frail  conundrum  guessed  I 
— It  was  Old  Business  —  he  was  going  west. 


246  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

This  bright  New  World  —  its  wonderful  career 
Is  too  well  known  to  be  examined  here. 
Its  hopes,  its  progress,  rapid  and  diverse, 
Need  greater  inspiration  to  rehearse. 
To-day  we  turn  the  hour-glass,  and  anew 
The  sands  of  a  fresh  century  start  through. 

On  July  Fourth  we  always  float  the  flag 
And  push  the  old  bald-eagle  from  the  crag; 
Fly  him  the  length  and  breadth  of  this  fair  land, 
From  the  Penobscot  to  the  Rio  Grande ; 
Then,  without  rest,  we  quickly  start  him  on 
A  trip  from  Florida  to  Oregon ; 
Then  bring  him  back,  and  boost  him  to  the  sky, 
And  let  him  stay  there  till  the  next  July. 
O,  grand  old  bird,  o'er  many  a  weary  mile 
They  've  made  you  sail  in  oratorio  style, 
While  fledgeling  speakers,  in  refulgent  prose, 
Capped  many  a  gorgeous  climax  as  you  rose. 
To-day  our  choicest  colors  are  unfurled  — 
Soar  up,  proud  bird,  and  circle  round  the  world  ; 
And  we  predict  that  nowhere  will  you  find 
A  place  like  Kansas  that  you  left  behind. 

He  who  has  lived  in  Kansas,  though  he  roam, 
Can  find  no  other  spot  and  call  it  "Home." 
As  Ingalls  says,  a  Kansas  man  may  stray  — 
May  leave — perchance  depart,  or  go  away; 
In  short,  may  roam ;  but  be  it  anywhere, 
He  must  return,  if  he  can  raise  the  fare. 


A    CORN  POEM.  24; 

No  other  State  those  wants  so  well  subserve 

Of  enterprise,  of  energy,  of  nerve ; 

No  other  State  more  thoroughly  maintains 

A  deep,  firm  hold  on  enterprise  and  brains ; 

No  other  State  has  held  a  greater  power 

To  meet  the  harsh  requirements  of  the  hour. 

Though  border  war  her  cities  overrun, 

Though  swarms  of  locusts  shade  the  summer  sun, 

No  matter  what  misfortunes  may  occur, 

The  State  goes  on  as  if  they  never  were. 

Cities  arise  where  towns  were  burned  before, 

The  prairies  sparkle  with  the  church  and  store, 

And  painted  harvesters,  fleet  after  fleet, 

Like  yachts,  career  through  seas  of  waving  wheat. 

We  all  believe  in  Kansas ;  she  's  our  State, 
With  all  the  elements  to  make  her  great — 
Young  men,  high  hopes,  proud  dreams  —  'tis  ours 

to  see 
The  State  attain  to  what  a  State  should  be. 

And  when  a  hundred  years  have  drifted  by, 
When  comes  the  next  Centennial  July ; 
When  other  orators,  in  other  verse, 
Far  better  days  in  better  ways  rehearse ; 
When  other  crowds,  composed  of  other  men, 
Shall  re-enact  the  present  scene  again ; 
May  they  be  able  then  to  say  that  she 
Is  all  that  we  have  wished  the  State  to  be. 


248  RHYMES   OF  IRONQUILL. 


THE  MEDICINE  MAN. 
[A  Story  of  a  Kansas  Pioneer.'] 

PREAMBLE. 

Stories  often  teem  with  sadness  —  this  is  desolate 

and  grim ; 
It  is  of  a  Kansas  doctor,  and  the  way  we  treated 

him. 

And  the  object  of  these  verses  is  an  eloquent  ap- 
peal 
To  those  higher,  nobler  feelings  that,  of  course, 

you  know  you  feel. 
Any  man  who  hears  this  story  is  obliged  to  shed  a 

tear; 

When  I  read  it  to  the  editor  that  runs  the  Pioneer, 
Hopeless  melancholy  seized   him,  and  for  thirty 

days,  or  more, 
He  was  wading  round  in  gum  boots  through  the 

tears  upon  the  floor. 

STOET. 

Out  to  Kansas  came  a  doctor,  wide  awake  and  full 

of  pluck ; 
Up  in  Atchison  he  settled,  and  he  leaned  up  close 

to  luck 


THE  MEDICINE  MAN.  249 

There  he  hung  out  his  diploma,  and  he  8tajed  from 

spring  to  fall, 

But  he  never  saw  an  invalid,  and  never  got  a  call. 
Colonel  Martin  then  advised  him  that  more  prac- 
tice could  be  got, 
If  he  only  shipped  his  talent  to  suburban  Wyan- 

dotte. 
Up  in  Wyandotte  he  lingered  just  about  a  year  in 

all, 
And   he   talked  about  his  college,  but  he  never 

reached  a  call. 
Buchansaid:   "Kaid  Topeka";  but  Taylor  calmly 

said: 
"  Try  Leaven  worth  or  Lawrence,  'hwich '  are  better, 

in  their  stead." 
Lawrence,  Leavenworth,  Topeka   yielded  similar 

results, — 
He  felt  much  disappointment,  but  he  did  n't  feel 

much  pulse. 
One  day  he  met  with  Murdock,  who  observed  : 

"  Come  down  below ; 
Try  the  Nile  of  sunny  Kansas";  and  the  doctor 

said  he  'd  go. 

First  he  cashed  a  fat  ancestral  draft ;  then,  plung- 
ing in  the  dark, 
Gave  to  fortune  and  to  Murdock  the  direction  of 

his  bark. 


250  RHYMES  OF  I  RON  QUILL. 

Down  at  Wichita  he  anchored,  but  his  chance  was 
jnst  as  slim ; 

His  bark  was  all  Peruvian  —  they  had  no  need  of 
him. 

Shortly  after  he  had  "opened  out "  in  busy  Wichita, 

He  absorbed  by  merest  accident  the  rudiments  of 
"draw." 

His  office  stayed  unopened  for  a  few  eventful 
days ; 

He  diagnosed  that  noble  game  in  all  its  wondrous 
ways. 

One  eve  he  found  a  bob-tailed  flush  of  unimpor- 
tant size ; 

He  stayed  behind  it  and  became  a  pauper  in  dis- 
guise. 

Said  he:   "This  'bleeding  Kansas'  is  no  place  for 

me  to  dwell  — 
One  'call'  in  three  years  and  a  half,  and  the  man 

that  '  called  '  was  well !  " 
A  very  lonesome  shirt  or  two  into  his  trunk  he 

stored, 
He  left  his  watch  in  mortmain  with  his  landlord 

for  his  board ; 
He  straightened  up,  disgusted,  and  relieved  his 

burdened  mind 
With  opinions  of  the  country  he  was  now  to  leave 

behind, 


THE  MEDICINE  MAN.  251 

"There  is  something  to  this  country  which  I  do 
not  understand  : 

Working,  scheming,  trade,  and  business,  lively 
lawsuits,  labor,  land  ; 

There  is  not  that  noble  yearning  here  for  pills  and 
cultured  thought, 

All  my  classic  erudition  is  both  useless  and  un- 
sought ; 

And  the  people,  as  I  find  them,  are  as  ignorant  as 
geese 

Of  the  woes  of  Asia  Minor  and  the  Iliad  of  Greece. 

No  one  stops  to  read  my  sheepskin  that  has  hung 
from  week  to  week ; 

No  one  ever  mentions  Ajax,  no  one  ever  mentions 
Greek.  • 

People  suffer  in  abundance  from  the  most  unheard- 
of  health, 

And  they  keep  acquiring  lawsuits  and  accumulat- 
ing wealth. 

Day  b}r  day  a  man  keeps  working,  just  as  happy 
as  a  clam, 

If  he  only  has  the  cash  to  buy  a  lawsuit  and  a  ham. 

Only  yesterday  I  saw  a  man    I    thought  would 

surely  die ; 
He  had  got  a  compound,  comminuted  fracture  of 

the  thigh. 


252  RHYMES   OF  IRON  QUILL. 

Aching  but  a  half  an  hour  or  so,  the  leg  declined 

to  swell ; 
He  poured  cold  water  on  it,  and  the  next  day  it 

was  well. 
Then  lie  worked  six  hours  that  afternoon,  and,  ere 

the  sun  went  down, 
He  had  got  into  a  lawsuit  with  the  fattest  man  in 

town.  % 

Now  and  here  I  pack  my  little  trunk.  By  vum  ! 
I  would  n't  stay 

In  climates  where  a  man  gets  old,  dries  up  and 
blows  away ; 

Would  n't  live  in  a  community  where  fortunes 
every  week 

Can  be  made  by  men  without  the  slightest  rudi- 
ments of  Greek. 

Let  me  —  let  me  find  some  sickly,  classic,  senti- 
mental spot. 

Here,  sir  !  check  my  baggage  eastward,  via,  Paint 
Creek  and  Fort  Scott." 

Then  he  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  high  and 

noble  brow, 
And  he  filed  some  affidavits  that  I  don't  remember 

now. 
Shortly  after  this,  a  mule  train,  from  the  westward 

coming  slow, 
Camped  beside  the  raging  Paint  Creek,  with  the 

doctor  on  the  go. 


THE  MEDICINE  MAN.       .  253 

An  old  army  mule  that  evening,  after  supper,  just 

for  fun, 
Kicked  and  broke  the  doctor's  arms  and  legs,  and 

all  his  ribs  but  one. 

This  old  mule  would   make  a  hero  for  a  romance 

or  a  song ; 
When   the   drums   beat,  and  the  bugles  sounded 

battle  loud  and  long, 
He  enlisted  in  the  army,  and  he  helped  to  pull  a 

train 
Up  the  mountains,  down  the  valleys,  through  the 

sunshine  and  the  rain  ; 
And  right  well  he  served  his  country,  for  he  knew 

where  duty  lay ; 
He  could  live  for  weeks  on  end-gates  when  they 

could  n't  give  him  hay. 

No  complaining,  no  desertion  ;  through  the  gumbo 
to  the  hub, 

Week  by  week  our  long-eared  hero  jerked  a  wagon- 
load  of  grub. 

Lightning  struck  him,  cannon  shot  him,  but  he 
never  failed  nor  flunked  ; 

Danger  left  him  as  it  found  him  —  undiscouraged, 
undefunct. 

And  in  all  my  army  service  I  have  never  seen  a 
mule 

With  a  keener  comprehension  of  the  educated  fool. 


254  RHYMES    OF  2RONQUILL. 

He  would  spot  a  man  instanter,  if  he  overheard 

him  speak 
About  Darwin,  Herbert  Spencer,  Correlation,  Force, 

or  Greek ; 
He  would  work   and  watch  in  silence,  and  look 

sheepish  day  by  day, 
One  eye  closed  in  meditation,  till  that  man  got  in 

his  way ; 
Then  that  person's  friends  were  lucky  if  they  did 

not  have  to  make 
A  collection  of  their  comrade  with  a  basket  and  a 

rake. 

Three  long  days  and  nights  the  doctor  in  my  shanty 
did  remain  ; 

Oftentimes  he  'd  grow  despondent,  and  have  symp- 
toms of  a  pain ; 

Oftentimes  he  'd  seem  discouraged,  and  would  say 
in  accents  weak : 

"Oh!  condemn  a  State  where  folks  get  rich  with- 
out a  word  of  Greek." 

Then  his  language  would  get  flighty  from  the  press- 
ure of  his  ills, 

Mixing  Latin,  Greek,  and  Ajax  up  with  three  jacks, 
checks,  and  pills. 

But  I  knew  he  would  recover,  or,  at  least,  I  thought 

I  knew 
That  the  ozone  in  the  climate  was  dead  sure  to  bring 

him  through. 


THE  MEDICINE  MAN.  255 

On  the  fifth  day,  convalescent,  rose  this  damaged 

guest  of  mine, 
And  upon  the  sixth,  all  right,  but  sad,  he  crossed 

the  Kansas  line. 
Left  behind  him  in  his  exit  were  ambition,  hope 

and  spunk ; 
Kansas  retained  his  enmity  —  Paint  Creek  retained 

his  trunk. 

Now,  a  true  poetic  justice  very  rigidly  asserts 
That  I  ought  to  add  a  sequel  to  our  hero  and  his 

shirts ; 
And  a  thorough  comprehension  of  the  reason  of 

the  rule 
Says  the  sequel  might  embody  something  further 

of  the  mule. 

Well,  our  hapless,  trunkless  hero  has  regained  his 
native  State, 

He's  aesthetic,  he  's  got  wisdom,  and  is  honored  — 
but  sedate; 

He  has  found  congenial  country,  rich  and  sickly, 
so  to  speak, 

Where  the  people  live  on  coupons,  and  like  medi- 
cine and  Greek; 

And  a  very  pleasant  stipend  he  is  able  now  to  draw 

From  the  active  perspiration  of  his  large  and  manly 
jaw. 


256  RHYMES   OF  1RONQUILL. 

He  has  gotten  out  a  volume,  which  a  leading  paper 

said 
Showed  a  vast  amount  of  learning,  and  a  very  level 

head; 
And  he  lectures  to  the  students  in  the  colleges 

near  by  ; 
And  he  tells  about  ambition  —  how  a  man  should 

do  or  die; 

Talks  of  allegoric  eagles  flying  upward  to  the  sun  ; 
Tells  them  all  about  success  in  life,  and  how  the 

thing  is  done. 
And  he  lectures  those  poor  students  all  about  the 

roll  of  fame  — 
How  a  man  should  take  a  broad-axe,  as  it  were, 

and  hew  a  name ; 
Talks  of  noble,  high  endeavor,  and  refers  in  strains 

sublime 
To  those  antiquated  footsteps  left  upon  those  sands 

of  time. 
These  same  lectures  have  been  printed — they're 

the  best  I  ever  saw ; 
But  they  do  not  mention  Kansas,  and  they  don't 

refer  to  "draw." 
Now  my  heart  would  swell  with  pathos,  and  my 

language  fill  with  gush, 
Just  to  think  what  nerve  it  takes  to  stay  behind  a 

bobtail  flush; 


THE  MEDICINE  MAN.  257 

But,  of  course,  it  is  n't  business  for  a  lecturer  to 

speak 
Of  such  subjects  to  a  people  who  are  so  diseased 

with  Greek. 
But  if  they  will  send  these  students  to  the  shore 

of  Yellow  Paint  — 

To  that  boulder-drifted  shore,  where  the 'angry  bil- 
lows roar, 
And   the  women    loudly  snore,  whether  they  're 

asleep  or  ain't  — 
I  could  tell  them  in  my  lecture  that  there  seems  to 

be  a  law 
That  applies  as  well,  to  greatness  as  we  know  it 

does  to  "draw." 
If  you  have  some  pairs  to  draw  to,  and  have  only 

got  the  sand, 
You  may  make  the  world  a  pauper  on  the  first  or 

second  hand. 
If  you  have  no  pair  to  draw  to,  yon  must  "  ante  " 

and  must  wait : 
You  are  likely  to  be  gobbled,  but  not  likely  to  be 

great. 

Fame  is  something  like  the  waiter  that  went  roar- 
ing down  the  hall, 
Giving  neither  bread  nor  greatness  to  the  man 

with  one  fish-ball. 


258  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

When  the  summer  moon  is  beaming  on  the  prairie 
and  the  stream, 

When  my  silver-lighted  shanty  seems  the  palace 
of  a  dream, 

Then  I  sit  out  on  my  wood-pile,  and  I  ponder  very 
fast 

O'er  the  somewhat  funny  present,  and  the  much 
more  funny  past ; 

Think  of  things  that  might  have  happened  — things 
forgotten  long  ago  — 

How  the  past  had  changed  the  present  had  it  hap- 
pened so  and  so. 

Then  I  think  about  the  future,  and  the  turn  that 
things  may  take ; 

And  I  say:  Hopes  are  but  dreamings  of  a  per- 
son wide  awake ; 

Then  I  add:  "Good-bye,  old  Mundane,"  as  to 
couch  and  dreams  I  go ; 

"I  'm  the  bachelor  of  Paint  Creek,  and  my  name  is 

JOSEPH  JOB." 


THE  SHORT-HAIRED  POET.  259 


THE  SHORT-HAIRED  POET. 

[Delivered  to  an  editorial  convention.] 

Poems  and  poets  and  poe*tic  lays 
Have  almost  filled  their  missions  and  their  days ; 
The  times  have  passed  when  minstrels'  lyric  strings 
Depicted  battles  and  applauded  kings. 

The  time  is  past  of  sovereigns  and  seers ; 
The  time  is  past  of  paladins  and  peers; 
Once  more  again  is  coming  on  the  stage 
The  long-lost  era  of  an  iron  age. 

The  days  of  long-haired  poets  now  are  o'er; 
The  short-haired  poet  seems  to  have  the  floor ; 
And  now  the  world  no  more  attends  to  rhymes 
That  do  not  catch  the  spirit  of  the  times. 

Who  cares  who  stole  the  coupons  of  old  Croesus? 
Who  cares  who  stole  the  Thracian  steeds  of  Rhe- 
sus? 

Who  cares  how  Menelaus  lost  his  wife? 
Who  cares  how  Mr.  Paris  lost  his  life? 

What  matters  it  how  Alba  Longa  grew, 
Flourished,  and  plundered  every  one  it  knew? 
To  long-haired  poets  themes  like  these  belong  — 
The  short-haired  poet  sings  another  song. 


260  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

The  short-haired  poet  has  no  muse  nor  chief; 
He  sings  of  corn  ;   he  eulogizes  beef  ; 
And  in  the  springtime  his  aesthetic  soul 
Bursts  forth  in  vernal  eulogies  on  coal. 

He  thinks  the  sunflower  nothing  but  a  weed, 
And  thinks  far  less  of  fancy  than  of  feed. 
The  power  of  kings,  in  his  poetic  dream, 
Can  cut  no  figure  with  the  power  of  steam. 

These  long-haired  themes  abandoned  in  a  lump, 
"He  sings  of  Business  —  "business  from  the  jump  "  ; 
And  in  this  verse  we  hope  that  you  will  find 
A  modest  poem  of  the  brief -haired  kind. 

Our  theme  is  Business,  and  we  gladly  sing 
That  which  the  world  now  honors  as  its  king ; 
Although  we  hear  of  crowns  and  titled  gold, 
Flour  and  pig-iron  now  the  scepter  hold. 

The  time  is  precious,  and  the  world's  mad  rush 
Stops  not  for  moonshine,  sentiment,  nor  gush. 
Untimely  is  the  minstrel  who  essays 
The  pomp  or  pride  of  royalty  to  praise. 

For,  at  the  present,  man's  progressive  scope 
Is  due  far  less  to  royalty  than  soap ; 
Is  due  far  more  to  workshops  and  to  farms  — 
Briarean  Business  with  its  hundred  arms. 


THE  SHORT-HAIRED  POE7\  26 

I  '11  tell  a  story  of  those  games  of  old 
Which  all  the  nations  gathered  to  behold  ; 
Where  arms  and  harpers  struggled,  and  obtained 
The  laurel  prizes  which  the  victors  gained  ; 

And  where  the  vast  assemblage  shouted  loud 
To  praise  a  victor  and  to  do  him  proud. 
And  I  will  tell  you  how  it  happened  here 
That  two  contesting  harpers  did  appear. 

A  golden  harp  one  to  the  trial  bore, 

A  golden  fillet  on  his  forehead  wore; 

And  from  his  shoulder,  with  embroidered  fold, 

Did  hang  a  mantle  of  brocaded  gold. 

The  other  harper  to  the  contest  brings 
An  iron  harp,  with  ripe,  sonorous  strings; 
His  hair  was  brief,  and  there  at  times  did  fly 
That  bilious  glare  of  genius  from  his  eye. 

The  vast  assemblage  standing  round  about 
Received  the  harpers  with  a  deafening  shout, 
And  when  at  last  the  tumult  died  away 
The  judges  motioned  for  the  harps  to  play. 

Gilded  Chloranthus  now  begins  his  song, 
Which  jars  in  harsh,  repugnant  notes  along; 
He  sings  of  kings,  and  gold.     Alasl  it  finds 
But  little  favor  in  the  judges'  minds. 


262  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

The  audience  listen,  and  are  not  exempt 
From  feelings  both  of  anger  and  contempt. 
He  sings  how  gold,  not  brains,  controls  the  earth ; 
How  gold  makes  rank,  and  then  how  rank  makes 
worth ; 

That  kings  are  heaven  appointed,  and  maintains 
That  gold  can  buy  all  bravery,  and  all  brains. 
Chloranthus  ceased,  and  through  the  crowd  there 

went 
An  unmistaken  symptom  of  dissent. 

And  now,  with  notes  sonorous,  clear  and  sharp, 
Begins  Timesis  of  the  iron  harp. 
He  sings  how  iron  makes  a  nation  proud ; 
He  sings  how  gold  to  iron  always  bowed ; 

Sings  of  unwalled,  yet  iron-guarded  towns; 
He  sings  of  iron  keels,  and  iron  crowns ; 
How  Klion's  golden  helmet  failed  to  save 
Beneath  the  blow  of  Thraxis'  iron  glaive. 

He  sang  how  Midas  begged  so  long  and  much 
The  gift  Jove  gave  him  of  the  golden  touch, 
And  how  at  last  king  Midas  tried  to  shift 
The  consequences  of  the  fatal  gift. 

And  then  he  sang  how  princely  Glaucns  sold 
His  dingy  arms  for  arms  of  solid  gold  ; 
How,  on  the  field,  the  wounded  Glaucus  lay, 
While  victors  bore  the  arms  and  sash  away  j 


THE   SHORT-HAIRED  POET.  263 

How,  in  the  fight,  his  ardent  course  was  checked, 
His  golden  shield  unable  to  protect. 
Thus  from  the  iron  wire  the  music  swept ; 
Thus    through    the    song    the    classic    phantoms 
stepped  — 

And  ceasing,  said:   "Of  kingly  power  and  gold 
Too  much  already  are  the  people  told." 
And  when  the  wire  ceased  trembling,  long  and  loud 
Came  up  the  approbation  of  the  crowd. 

Gilded  Chloranthus  asks  another  trial, 
And  meeting  from  the  judges  no  denial, 
He  starts  again,  but  vainly  he  aspires 
To  tempt  the  music  from  the  gilded  wires. 

Than  kings  and  gold  no  other  song  he  sings; 
No  other  notes  will  leave  the  golden  strings ; 
And  when  he  starts  another  lyric  bold, 
It  breaks  and  runs  into  "the  power  of  gold." 

Then  from  the  crowd  a  fitful  murmur  rose 
That  brought  his  hapless  efforts  to  a  close ; 
And  when  at  last  the  crowd  was  silent,  then 
The  iron  harp  and  harper  start  again. 

He  sings  of  hardships,  and  he  sings  of  arts  — 
Twin  themes  responsive  in  all  human  hearts; 
He  sings  of  mariners,  he  sings  of  mines ; 
He  sings  of  viaducts,  he  sings  of  vines; 


•264  t  RHYMES   OF  IRONQUILL. 

He  sings  how  sturdy  workmen  tug  upon 

The  marble  ledges  of  Pentelicon. 

He  sings  of  piers  built  out  in  ocean  foams ; 

Of  "  woven-winged,  sea-wandering  sailor-homes  ";  * 

Of  daring  pilots,  guiding  at  the  helm 
Commercial  tri-remes  to  some  distant  realm. 
He  sings  of  bridges,  and  he  sings  of  roads ; 
Of  Spartan  manners  and  of  iron  codes; 

He  sings  of  Marathon  and  of  Platea, 

And  how  republics  fight  for  an  idea. 

He  sings  the  future,  and  the  First  Great  Cause ; 

The  birth  of  morals  and  the  growth  of  laws ; 

How  nations  owe  far  less  to  soldiers'  drill 
Than  to  the  forge,  and  iron-workers'  skill; 
How  private  rights  will  slow  and  surely  fail, 
As  labor  lowers  in  the  social  scale ; 

How  Freedom  grows ;  how  tyrannies  decay, 
As  arts  evolve,  and  labor  gets  its  pay. 
And  as  along  Timesis  pours  his  song, 
A  frightful  frenzy  seizes  on  the  throng ; 

They  strip  the  golden  harper  of  his  crown, 
And  in  the  race-course  it  is  trampled  down ; 
The  golden  mantle  from  his  shoulders  wrung, 
And  in  the  sea  harper  and  harp  are  flung. 


THE  SHORT-HAIRED  POET.  265 

And  then  Timesis  sang  a  song  of  old : 

"Thus  perish  they  who  sing  of  kings  and  gold." 

Now  do  not  burlesque  what  Timesis  said, 
And,  Twain-like,  ask  me  if  the  man  is  dead. 
Your  blank  expressions,  like  a  billiard  cue, 
Carom  me  back  to  what  I  had  in  view — 
Which  was,  to  soar  in  rash,  poetic  notes; 
To  sing  t)f  pigs,  macadam,  poultry,  oats. 

I  would  not  mix  at  this  auspicious  time 
Low,  drawling  verses  on  hydraulic  lime; 
But  in  Icarian  flight  would  "seek  the  skies 
On  carpets,  coal  oil,  cotton,  railroad  ties. 

Fain  would  I  sing  of  prints,  of  coffee  A; 
Of  harness,  harrows,  hoop-poles,  hymn-books,  hay. 
Fain  would  I  sing  of  rope  whose  twisted  coil 
Holds  new-washed  shirts  and  horse-thieves  from 
the  soil; 

Of  Kansas  fire-brick  that  can  stand  "cremation"; 
Of  blacksmiths'  bellows  that  can  stand  "inflation"; 
Of  arts  and  artisans  both  great  and  small  — 
But  we  must  cease ;  our  verse  won't  hold  them  all. 

A  long-haired  bard  a  story  once  did  spin ; 
I  '11  clip  its  hair,  and  gently  lead  it  in. 
It  says  that  in  Laomedon's  employ 
Old  Neptune  built  the  battlements  of  Troy ; 


'266  RHYMES  OF  I  RON  QUILL. 

And  when  he  asked  the  monarch  for  his  pay, 
The  monarch  stood  him  back  and  answered,  "Nay." 
Then  Neptune  struck  his  trident  on  the  strand, 
And  steel-clad  squadrons  issued  from  the  sand ; 

He  beat  his  trident  on  the  ocean's  banks  — 
Up  sprang  battalions  with  their  iron  ranks. 
The  king  was  filled  with  terror  and  dismay ; 
He  issued  bonds  and  Neptune  got  his  pay. 

O  king-crowned  Business  !  from  thy  height  sublime 
Thou  overlookest  every  land  and  clime. 
Alike  thou  seest  where  thy  Southern  sails 
Plow  up  the  billows  and  repulse  the  gales ; 

As  where  the  Northern  steamers  from  their  track 
Beat  both  the  wild  winds  and  the  wild  waves  back. 
No  longer  dost  thou  stretch  thy  feeble  hands 
O'er  inland  seas,  and  river-bounded  lands ; 

No  longer  on  the  ocean  to  and  fro, 
Borne  by  the  breezes,  do  thy  galleys  go : 
That  time  is  over,  and  thou  now  dost  bring 
The  world  to  do  thee  homage  as  its  king. 

More  potently  than  Neptune  art  thou  crowned ; 
Beat  down  thy  iron  trident  on  the  ground, 
And  ere  the  echo  of  the  blow  is  done 
The  brick-built  cities  sparkle  in  the  sun ; 


THE  SHORT-HAIRED  POET.  267 

Beat  down  thy  trident  where  the  sea  surf  raves, 
And  snow-white  navies  rise  amid  the  waves ; 
And  where  thy  iron  trident  strikes  the  strand 
The  cities'  maritime  in  clusters  stand. 

But  when  thy  energy  is  turned  away 
The  nations  crumble,  and  the  states  decay; 
And  blocks  Cyclopean  in  the  sands  lie  drifted, 
To  show  how  empires  fade,  how  realms  are  rifted, 
When  from  their  soil  thy  trident  has  been  lifted. 

The  world  is  but  an  ocean  of  unrest 
Whose  tidal  billows  wander  to  the  West; 
For  age  on  age  the  ancient  East  did  hold 
Unnumbered  people  and  uncounted  gold. 

Most  happy  Kansas!  prosperous  and  free, 
She  rests  upon  the  margin  of  the  sea ; 
And  day  by  day  upon  her  shores  are  hurled 
The  tidal  billows  of  the  olden  world. 

And  Business  now,  with  unremitting  toil 
Goes  beating  down  his  trident  on  the  soil ; 
And,  as  he  moves,  the  fields  of  yellow  grain 
Rise  waving  on  the  prairie  and  the  plain ; 

And  scarce  the  soil  his  iron  trident  meets, 
Up  springs  a  city  with  a  hundred  streets ; 
The  streets  are  crowded,  Business  gives  a  smile, 
And  moves  on,  pounding  in  Neptunian  style. 


268  RHYMES    OF  IRON  QUILL. 

O'er  Western  wilds  the  printing-press  each  year 
Becomes  a  braver,  bolder  pioneer. 
No  dangers  daunt  it,  and  no  toils  o'ertax; 
It  camps  beside  the  rifle  and  the  axe ; 

And  while  the  night  stars  in  the  west  decline, 
The  types  are  clicking  on  the  picket-line ; 
And  where  to-day  unnumbered  wild  deer  run, 
To-morrow's  trade,  like  Memnon,  greets  the  sun. 

Once  Noble  Prentis  did  a  story  tell 
About  one  mule,  that  tumbled  in  a  well ; 
And  how  they  threw  down  straw,  until,  all  right, 
The  mule  just  tramped  his  way  up  to^the  light. 

The  Kansas  press  has  had  that  way  to  do  — 
To  leave  the  bed-rock  and  to  work  up  through. 
The  well  is  filled  —  the  times  have  changed  since 

then ; 
The  mule  is  out  and  can't  fall  back  again. 

The  last  year's  wildernesses  bloom  to-day ; 
"Through  scars  to  stars"  the  live  State  makes  its 

way. 

In  such  progressive  times  as  these  we  guess 
Most  easily  the  duty  of  the  Press. 

The  duty  of  the  Press  is,  day  by  day, 
To  swindle  old  Oblivion  of  his  prey. 


THE  SHORT-HAIRED  POET.  269 

It  is  its  special  duty  to  reveal 
The  frightful  hayoc  of  some  foeman's  steal / 
Like  porcupines  to  fling  a  lively  quill, 
Or  hurl  plumbago  with  destructive  skill. 

The  epic  bard,  the  minstrel  with  his  rhymes, 
Were  once  the  sole  historians  of  the  times; 
Barbaric  night  has  fled  before  the  dawn: 
The  harps  lie  stringless,  and  the  bards  are  gone. 

The  printing-press  has  now  usurped  their  power 
And  clanks  Clionian  music  hour  by  hour ; 
While  from  the  pen  the  ink-drops,  day  by  day, 
Are  drowning  kings,  and  washing  thrones  away, 

The  local  Press  should  sedulously  strive 
To  build  up  business  and  to  make  it  'live. 
Business  is  what  the  people  want  to  hear; 
The  Press  should  echo  it  from  far  and  near. 

No  town  can  hope  prosperity  and  trade, 
Unless  the  Press  shall  vigorously  aid. 
The  local  Press  must  utter  loud  and  long 
Commercial  lyrics  in  unceasing  song; 
Must  sing,  in  notes  sonorous,  clear  and  sharp, 
Songs  that  re-echo  like  Timesis'  harp. 

But  if  the  Press,  in  irresponsive  strains, 
Shall  fail  to  sing  of  business  and  of  brains ; 
Shall  leave  the  people  and  the  people's  toil; 
Shall  rise  above  the  workshop  and  the  soil ; 


270  RHYMES   OF  IRON  QUILL. 

And  if  the  people  shall  at  last  behold 

A  press  responsive  to  the  power  of  gold, 

A  change  will  come;  and  then  the  Press  will  be 

Thrown,  like  the  gilded  harper — in  the  sea. 

With  such  high  duties  honored,  we  may  guess 
What  is  the  future  mission  of  the  Press. 
'Tis  theirs  to  be,  as  in  some  clock-tower  high, 
Seeing  and  seen  by  all,  both  far  and  nigh ; 

'Tis  theirs  to  be  the  dial  of  the  times, 
And  mark  the  progress  of  all  lands  and  climes. 
As  useful  arts  come  struggling  up  through  trial, 
The  Press  records  them  on  its  iron  dial ; 

And  as  its  iron  fingers  slowly  mark 
The  forward  movement  on  the  iron  arc, 
The  world  looks  up  with  fervor  from  below, 
Watching  the  iron  minutes  come  and  go. 

What  Kansas  wants  is  pioneers,  not  partisans ; 
Wants  poorer  orators  but  better  artisans. 
The  politicians  have  become  redundant, 
The  moribund  ones  should  be  mori-bundant. 

We  Ve  gathered  here  from  places  far  away ; 
Have  brought  our  knitting  and  intend  to  stay ; 
And  all  of  us  —  the  greater  part,  at  least  — 
Like  ancient  wise  men,  came  here  from  the  East. 


THE   SHORT-HAIRED  POET.  271 

We  do  not  live  so  elegant  and  well 
As  we  've  been  "used  to" — if  yon  heard  us  tell  — 
For  some  of  us  in  marble  halls  lived  grand  ; 
And  now  our  only  hauls  are,  hauling  sand. 

And  those  who  nations'  destinies  might  sway, 
Are  out  here  breaking  prairie  by  the  day. 
Men  who  have  led  brigades  with  bugle  sounding 
Are  here  police,  nomadic  pigs  impounding. 

Men  for  whom  senates  would  suspend  their  rules 
Are  using  oratory,  here,  to  mules ; 
And  he  who  watered  Eastern  stock,  completes 
His  education,  here,  in  watering  streets. 

But  over  this  we  must  not  feel  depressed  — 
We  're  building  up  the  empire  of  the  West. 
We  have  our  ills,  but  these  will  soon  be  passed ; 
Sorrows,  like  boots,  are  n't  always  on  the  last. 
These  trifling  troubles  soon  will  shrink  away 
Like  dew,  and  gamblers,  at  the  break  of  day. 

Your  honored  names  we  gladly  would  applaud 
Who  visit  us  this  evening  from  abroad  ; 
Although  not  well  acquainted,  we  meanwhile 
Have  read  your  papers  and  we  like  your  style. 
We  do  not  let  your  efforts  go  to  waste ; 
We  have  applauded  with  the  shears  and  paste; 
And,  speaking  metaphorically,  thus 
We  stuck  to  you,  and  hope  you  will  to  us. 


272  RHYMES  OF  2RONQUILL. 


A  KOMANCE. 

PREFACE. 

When  a  person   knows  a  story  that  he  thinks  he 

ought  to  teli, 

"If  he  doesn't  get  to  tell  it,  why  of  course  he  don't 
feel  well; 

And  if  no  one  stops  to  listen,  why  of  course  a  man 
will  feel 

All  broke  up  and  dislocated,  and  uneasy  as  an  eel ; 

That 's  the  reason  that  I  ask  you,  in  a  sad,  implor- 
ing way : 

Here 's  a  little,  bob-tailed  gushlet,  I  will  tell  it  if 
you  stay. 

CHAPTER  I. 

Well !  the  heroes  of  my  story  are  a  maiden  and  a 

youth ; 
Sam  was  raised  in  Indiana,  and  the  girl  lived  in 

Duluth. 
Where  my  subjects  met  each  other,  I  presume  I 

can't  relate  — 
I  am  told  it  was  Wisconsin,  and  suppose  it  is  the 

State; 


A   ROMANCE.  273 

Sam  was  storing  ardent  spirits,  and  engaged  in 

peddling  stencils, 
While  the  girl  was  mangling  hash  with  some  old 

hotel  utensils; 
And  they  met  and  loved  each  other,  in  that  rash, 

erratic  way 

That  is  told  of  in  the  novel,  or  is  acted  in  the  play. 
How  a  man  can  go  distracted  on  a  female,  as  her 

lover, 

Is  a  mystery  to  me  that  I  never  could  discover ; 
And  I  wish  I  could  discover  why  a  woman  likes  a 

man 
With  such  horrible  devotion,  but  I  don't  believe  I 

can. 

On  the  shores  of  Yellow  Paint, 

After  winter,-  cold  and  chill, 
When  the  spring-time  strikes  its  focus, 
By  what  magic  hocus-pocus 
Come  the  primrose  and  the  crocus, 
On  the  meadow  and  the  hill? 
Whyfore  buds  the  hamamellis? 
Whyfore  twining  up  the  trellis? 
Whyfore,  from  the  painted  lattice, 
Does  the  columbine  peep  at  us? 
If  you  '11  answer  this,  I  '11  fill 
You  with  ardent  spirits  gratis. 


274  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

In  this  world  of  mirth  and  music,  pork,  pomposity 
and  pain, 

There  is  absolutely  nothing  human  beings  can  ex- 
plain. 

Here  I  leave  the  realms  of  reason,  disappointed  as 
I  am, 

And  return  unto  my  subject,  the  Wisconsin  girl 
and  Sam. 

Oh,  the  way  they  loved  each  other,  it  is  vain  to 
try  to  tell  — 

Why  !  they  sickened  all  the  boarders  of  a  second- 
class  hotel ; 

This,  of  course,  used  up  the  landlord,  who  collapsed 
for  want  of  custom  — 

He  ran  off  and  left  the  merchants  he  was  owing, 
and  it  bust  'em ; 

Then  the  heavy  business  fortunes  went  a-tumbling 
into  wrecks, 

And  the  banks  began  suspending  and  a-certifying 
checks. 

Oh,  such  frantic,  furious    loving,  rabid,   restless, 

reckless,  rash ! 
No !  the  people  could  n't  stand  it,  and  the  city  went 

to  smash ; 
All  the  taxes  went  delinquent,  and  the  subjects  of 

our  stanzas 
Fished  their  trunks  out  of  the  window,  and  en-routed 

it  for  Kansas. 


A  ROMANCE.  275 

(Pyrotechnic  exhibitions   of    affection    ought    to 

grieve  — 
But  they  've  made  the  world  a  circus  ever  since  the 

days  of  Eve. 
Should  you  call  these  words  ironic,  you  will  make 

a  big  mistake, 
For  ferruginous  remarks  are  just  the  kind  I  never 

make.) 

At  this  point  I  end  my  story ;  by  the  way  that  you 
receive  it, 

And  the  honest  way  I  tell  it,  I  believe  that  you  be- 
lieve it. 

CHAPTER  II. 

On  the  shores  of  Yellow  Paint,  where  the  billows 
loudly  roar, 

Where  the  blue-eyed  zephyrs  faint,  and  the  blue- 
eyed  women  snore, 

On  a  bluff  beside  the  billows  —  on  a  bold,  project- 
ing bluff — • 

Stands  a  large  and  stately  building,  that  is  made 
of  native  stuff; 

And  around  it  are  the  meadows,  and  the  orchards 
and  the  fields; 

High-priced  cattle  lowing  gently,  while  the  modest 
Berkshire  squeals; 


276  RHYMES   OF  IRONQUILIJ 

And  around  it  leaves  of  Autumn  promenade  with 
reckless  rustle, 

And  around  it  Kansas  zephyrs  play  with  custom- 
ary muscle. 

Do  }7ou  ask  me  who  reside*  here  —  I  must  say  in 
tearful  tones, 

That  said  building  is  infested  by  a  bachelor  called 
"Jones." 

On  the  shores  of  Yellow  Paint,  where  the  billows 

sadly  rave, 
And  unhappy  zephyrs  wail  o'er  the  graveyard  and 

the  grave, 
Where  the  cypress  and  the  yew  let  the  struggling 

sunbeams  through, 
And  the  marble  bids  adieu  to  the  beautiful  and 

brave, 
Stands  a  splendid  mausoleum,  and  the  interesting 

annals 

Of  the  owner  are  presented  in  extenso  on  the  panels ; 
And  the  tomb  is  minaretted  with  a  white  Carrara 

shaft, 
That  is  longer  than  the  oar-pole  of  a  Mississippi 

raft. 

Should  you  ask  me  what  proud  being  underneath 

this  marble  lies, 
Should  you  ask  whose  loving  fingers  caused  these 

souvenirs  to  rise, 


A  ROMANCE.  277 

Should  you  ask  me  whose  loud  virtues  on  the  mar- 
ble are  set  down  — 

Having  given  a  perusal,  I  should  say  his  name  was 
Brown. 

Brown,  you  see,  was  very  wealthy,  and  they  built 

this  to  attract 
The  attention  of  the  bugler,  when  the  final  doom 

was  cracked. 
On  the    massive   marble  panels  there  are  finely 

written  down 
Many  schedules  of  the  virtues  and  nobilities  of 

Brown  — 
Many  virtues  great  and  rare;  but  I  cannot  help 

from  feeling 
They  omitted  Brown's  best  virtue  —  legal,  lawful, 

thrifty  stealing. 

CHAPTER   III. 

Now  I  think  I  hear  you  tell  me,  in  the  most  em- 
phatic tones* 

"Tell  your  story  —  blast  your  Paint  Creek! — we 
don't  care  for  Brown  or  Jones." 

I  repel  the  interruption,  and  besides,  this  slight  di- 
gression 

Has  been  told  by  way  of  kindness,  to  correct  a 
false  impression. 


278  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

It  might  happen  in  the  future  that  you  M  visit  Yel- 
low Paint, 

Where  the  billows  wildly  roar,  where  the  saucy 
sea-gulls  soar, 

And  the  women  loudly  snore,  whether  they're 
asleep  or  ain't ; 

And  beholding  Jones's  "lay-out,"  you  would  in- 
stantly declare 

Our  romantic  hoop-pole  lover  was  a-living  over 
there. 

Then  you  'd  pass  along  in  silence,  and  your  heart 

grow  cold  and  sad, 
And  you  'd  take  a  dose  of  "ruin,"  if  the  fluid  could 

be  had ; 
And  you  'd  talk  of  deathless  loving,  and  devotion 

deep  and  true ; 
All  at  once  you  'd  see  Brown's  marble  'mid  the 

cypress  and  the  yew  — 

Tomb  of  him  o'er  whose  bright  virtues  an  inscrip- 
tion sadly  grieves, 
While  the  column  flings  its  Outline  through  the 

mesh-work  of  the  leaves ; 
And  you  'd  say,  "See  there  !  that  column  ;  it  must 

certainly  belong 
To  the  wild  Wisconsin  maiden  —  she  who  loved  so 

deep  and  strong"; 


A  ROMANCE.  279 

And  you  'd  go  and  tell  the  story  to  the  first  one  you 

would  see  — 
Tell  how  wildly  strong  their  love  was;  tell  how 

Samuel  and  she 
Produced    a   first-class   panic   and   demoralized  a 

town. 
You'd  say,  "There    sleeps  her  potash" — you'd 

turn  and  point  to  Brown. 

But  you  would  n't  be  correct,  for  some  long-haired, 

frontier  mammoth 
Wed  the  girl  and  started  westward,  and  they  're 

living  out  at  Klamath. 
Four   large    boys    get    daily  flouncings  from  the 

tough,  maternal  withe, 
And  a  woman  runs  that  outfit,  by  the  novel  name 

of  Smith. 

Sam  is  keeping  a  saloon  up  in  Canada,  Toronto, 
And  he  drinks  his  ardent  spirits,  just  like  you  do, 

when  you  want  to ; 
Naught  he  careth  for  the  maiden,  whether  she  's 

extant  or  not, 
For  she  long  has  been  forgotten,  just  as  Sam  has 

been  forgot. 


280  RHYMES  OF  JRONQUILL. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

From  the  shores  of  Yellow  Paint, 
Where  the  billows  loudly  roar, 
From  that  adamantine  shore, 

Where  the  blue-eyed  zephyrs  faint, 
And  the  women  loudly  snore, 

Whether  they  're  asleep  or  ain't, 
Comes  the  burden  of  my  song. 

When  you  love  a  girl,  you  ourght 
Not  to  make  it  sweet  and  short  — 

Love  her  light,  but  love  her  long. 

If  you  love  her  wild  and  strong, 
You  will  soon  be  better  taught — 
She  will  leave  you  without  thought. 
Should  you  have  a  maiden's  love  — 

Love  her  light,  but  love  her  long. 

I  'm  opposed  to  moralizing,  in  a  solemn  spot  like 

this, 
But  in  fact  man  ain't  constructed  for  a  heavy  strain 

of  bliss. 
Human  beings  aie  like  boilers,  and  the  same  rules, 

it  would  seem, 

Have  an  equal  application  to  affection  and  to  steam. 
Making  love  and  putting  steam  on  will  entail  the 

same  mishaps  — 
When  you  get  on  too  much  pressure,  all  is  lost  by 

a  collapse. 


A    ROMANCE.  281 

Now,  I  think  I  hear  yon  ask  me,  in  the  most  im- 
ploring tones, 

"Do  us  full  poetic  justice  —  tell  us,  what  became 
of  Jones  ? " 

On  the  shores  of  Yellow  Paint,  break  the  angry 
billows  still ; 

Still  the  marble  column  gleams,  and  the  angry 
white  gull  screams, 

While  the  habitat  of  Jones  still  is  seen  upon  the 
hill; 

There  the  able-bodied  zephyrs,  with  their  melan- 
choly moans, 

Rock  my  native-lumber  shanty  —  I'm  the  bachelor 
called  JONES. 


RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


THE   KANSAS   BANDIT; 

OB, 

THE   FALL   OF   INGALLS. 


[ALONZO,  the  Bandit,  is  seen  walking  up  and  down 

the  HiattoUle  road,  near  Yellow  Paint 

Creek,  Kansas.'} 

(He  speaks  :) 

"Here  I  parade  the  banks  of  classic  Paint,  while 
Poverty  dotli  like  a  setting  hen  upon  me 
Fortunes  brood. 

The  times  were  once  when  from 
Gigantic  war  recovering,  the  currency  was  to  the 
Wants  of  business  equal.     With  scanty  rites, 
Economy,  the  sickly  child  of  poverty,  was  then  in 
Graveyard  buried.  Apace  the  times  have  changed. 
Drawpoker  for  the  last  four  years  remuneration 
Hath  not  yielded.     Me  constitution  doth  the  full 
Assimilation  of  me  normal  rum  refuse.    No  longer 
Will  the  credulous  'bootlegger'  accept  me 
Promises.     While  upon  the  street  women  of 
Doubtful  reputation  snub  me.     The  avenues  of 
Honest  labor  all  seem  closed.     The  preachers  on 
The  roof  do  jeer  at  me  down  on  the  pavement. 


THE  KANSAS  BANDIT.  283 

The  times,  the  times  are  like  a  mule-kicked  lantern 
Shattered  :  and  all  because  the  people  do  not  rule." 

[  Walks  up  and  down  between  Marmaton  and  Hiatt- 

ville.     Harrison  Kelley  is  seen  plowing 

in  the  distance.'] 

(ALONZO  speaks:) 

"Now  on  the  banks  of  classic  Paint  I  stand, 
With  deathless  nerve  I  clutch  this  trenchant  brand, 
By  fortune  crowded  to  the  latest  ditch, 
War  I. proclaim  against  both  poor  and  rich. 
And  now  and  here,  importunate  and  rash 
I  face  the  world — exclusively  for  cash." 

[Music  by  the  orchestra.     ALONZO  parades,  wrapped 

in  d  linen  duster  and  profound  thought.     A. 

stranger  appears.     ALONZO  draws  a 

sigh  and  a  scythe.'] 
ALONZO.     "Halt.     Stand.     Ducats  or  blood. 

Of  which  hast  thon  the  mostest  ? " 
[The  stranger  strikes  an  attitude  and  replies:] 
"My  sir — I  am  in  occupation  holy, 
I  am  a  follower  of  the  meek  and  lowly ; 
Do  not  detain  me  —  I  have  got  a  scheme 
To -get  an  office.     Most  of  blood  I  seem 
To  have  at  present.     Ducats  are  a  fiction ; 
I  give  thee  all  I  have  —  a  benediction. 

Before  I  got  in  politics,  dear  Bandit, 

I  had  a  pulpit,  and  right  well  I  manned  it. 


284  RHYMES    OF  JRONQUILL. 

I  used  to  tell  the  story  of  the  cross, 
But  now  I  just  talk  politics  and  hoss. 
I  'm  down  on  Ingalls  now,  for  his  position 
I  do  not  think  real  sound  on  prohibition. 

And  many  things  he  says  doth  much  displease  us ; 
McGrath  says  In-galls  wants  another  Jesus. 
Then  Ingalls  talks  of  'iridescent  dreams,' 
That  government  is  force  —  and  so  it  seems 
That  while  so  many  others  are  against  him, 
Us  moralists  have  got  to  be  ferninst  him." 

ALONZO.  "  Give  me  thy  cash  —  I  fight  not  Ingalls, 

But  poverty." 

STRANGER.  "I  have  not  cash." 
ALONZO.  "Pass  on." 

[He  goes  to  Wichita.     ALONZO  soliloquizes  :] 

"Times  be  no  more  what  they  did  use  'ter  — 
A  Senatorial  Toga  that  old  rooster 
Would  not  refuse.     The  times  are  getting  critical 
And  need  a  change,  when  those  of  race  Levitical 
Risk  peace  and  poultry  for  a  place  political." 

[Enter  tall  stranger,  with  spectacles.'} 

ALONZO.   "Bullion  or  blood,  of  which 

Art  thou  most  scanty? 
I  'm  the  Kansas  Bandit, 
Stand  and  ante." 


THE  KANSAS  BANDIT.  285 

STRANGER.  "Art  thou  the  Paint  Creek  Bandit?  " 

ALONZO.   "I  are." 

STRANGER.  "Do  you  believe  in  the  purification 

Of  Kansas  politics  and  in  the  decalogue?  " 
ALONZO.   "Distract  me  not  with  thy  pale  cast 
Of  thought :  what  man  art  thou, 
And  where  thy  cash?" 

STRANGER.   "I  am  the  Buck  of  Duke-ing-ham; 
I  'm  fighting  Ingalls  every  day, 
I  'm  fighting  Ingalls  every  way, 

I'll  make  him  find  out  who  I  am. 
I  get  my  cash  all  from  the  South, 
And  for  that  cash  I  ope  my  mouth." 
ALONZO.   "Art  thou  a  farmer?  " 
STRANGER.  "No,  I  am  an  agriculturist." 
ALONZO.  "  What  is  the  difference  ?  " 
STRANGER.  "  The  farmer  works  the  soil, 

The  agriculturist  works  the  farmer." 
ALONZO.   "Oh,  me  prophetic  soul,  the  tissue  mus- 
cular 

Which  I  a  feeble  remnant  in  me  bosom 
Have  —  me  cardiac  formation — yearns 
Now  for  thee,  my  long,  my  long-lost 
Brother,  for  thou  the  usual  strawberry  mark 
Hath  got  upon  thy  damaged  reputation." 
STRANGER.  "Down  in  thy  bootleg  now  thy  corn- 
knife  sheath, 

While  I  of  deep  damnation  tell  to  thee 
A  tale  of  misery  that  far  beneath 


286  KHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

That  of  thine  own  hath  happened  unto  me. 
Perhaps  you  know  me  by  my  late  bio 

graphy  — 
I  am  the  author  of  that  late  Geography. 

I  wanted  to  collect  the  revenue. 
I  went  to  Atchison,  and  then  and  there 

I  stayed  with  Ingalls  for  a  week  or  two. 
He  put  in  Leland,  and  it  made  me  swear. 
Then  Ingalls  said,  in  words  that  seemed 

so  real, 
Dear     General,     won't    you    proceed    to 

sheol." 
ALONZO.     Thy  tale  is  short,  and  yet  it  doth  unman 

me. 

Thou  hast  more  poetry  than  picayunes, 
More  spondees  than  spondtilics  — 
Pass  on  thy  way  —  pass  on  —  thou  need'st 

not 

Ante,  for  in  the  game  of  life  none 
But  the  dealers  ante." 

[He  walks  off  to  Fort  Scott.     ALONZO  speaks.} 

"O  finance  !  of  which  word  our  Senators  do  the  last 
Syllable  accentuate,  in  what  tartarian  gloom  are 
All  thy  maxims  shrouded.     The  People's  Party,  to 
Which  me  native  instinct  draws  me  because  it 
Loves  the  rule  of  mediocrity,  is  now  on  top.     I 
Love  the  rule  of  Ignorance.    I  love  to  see  a  granger 


THE  KANSAS  BANDIT.  287 

Who  doesn't  know  a  pine  refrigerator  from  a  legal 
Maxim,  discourse  on  finance,  whittling  on  a  store 
box." 

[Enter  stranger.'] 

ALONZO.  "What,  hoe!     Stand  and  deliver." 

STRANGER.       "  Who  art  thou  ?     Speak  !  " 
ALONZO.  "I  am  a  Bandit.     I    am   what  Ed. 

Smith 

Doth  call  a  'sovereign  squat.' — Dis- 
gorge." 

STRANGER.       "I  also  arn  a  kind  of  Bandit.     I  run 
An  anti-Ingalls  newspaper.    I  have  no  cash. 
I  take  up  a  collection  as  I  go,  to  pay 
My  operating  expenses  —  including  my 
Fixed  charges.     I  try  to  keep  my  operating 
Expenses  within  fifty-five  per  cent,  of 
My  gross  receipts.     I  could  do  better  did 
Not  my  pooling  contract  with  Willetts 
Disturb  my  traffic." 

ALONZO.     "Thou  dost  prevaricate.    Thou  art  not  an 
Editor  of  the  People's  Party.     Thou  hast 
On  a  clean  shirt." 

STRANGER.   "But  a  dirty  undershirt  —  an  awful  dirty 
one." 

ALONZO.     "'Tis  well  —  but  then — I  want  no  shirt. 
Wealth  must  I  have  —  disgorge." 

STRANGER.     "I  have  no  wealth." 

ALONZO.     "  What  hast  thou,  then  2  " 


288  RHYMES   OF  IRONQUILL. 

STRANGER.    "  I  have  intellect  —  lately  discovered — 

like 

The  salt  at  Hntchinson,  but  still  I  've  got  it." 
ALONZO.     "That  will  I  take;  and  with  this  ghastly 

steel, 

Which  now  in  circles  with  violence  centrif- 
ugal 

.1  brandish,  all  above  thy  ears  will  I  dissever, 
And  make  thee  like  the  headless  hen  of 
Wichita,  fed  through  the  gullet  with  a  goose 
Quill.     All  that  thou  needest  is  thy 
Cere-bellum  in  these  post-bellum  days. 

A  howler  of  calamity, 
He  needs  no  brains,  for  damit  'e, 
Can  work  on  cheek  and  vanity, 
Big  whiskers  and  inanity." 

[Smites  off  all  of  his  head  above  his  ears.     The 
editor  walks  off  with  his  ears  stick- 
ing up,  saying:'] 

"I  have  foiled  that  rude  ruffian's  sagacity  — 
Though  I  've  lost  my  formation  cerebral, 
There  's  no  darkness,  however  tenebral, 

That  can't  be  lit  up  with  mendacity. 

I  '11  gather  in  all  the  appliances 
Of  the  usual  Kansas  hypocrisy, 
Charge  Ingalls  with  sheer  aristocracy 

And  ram  the  charge  through  the  Alliances. 


THE  KANSAS  BANDIT.  289 

And  I  '11  talk  with  a  random  velocity 
Of  his  absolute  want  of  ability, 

Of  his  world  understood  imbecility, 
Of  his  social  and  public  atrocity. 

And  then  as  a  simple  memorial 
Of  what  his  career  has  so  signified, 

I'll  take  up  his  toga  most  dignified 
And  wrap  it  around  my  corporeal." 

[Exit  stranger.} 

ALONZO.      "Ha!  I'll  let  him  go. —  He 's  traveling 
Upon  his  cerebellum.    He  must  be  careful 
Or  Web.  Wilder  won't  let  him  do  business 
In  the  State. 

I  love  calamity.     I  love  to  howl  it 
And  to  hear  it  howled.     My  poetry  is 
Good  although  my  luck  is  not.     Here 
Are  some  verses  which  I  wrote  and 
Paraphrased  from  the  Chicago  Mail. 
I  '11  send  them  to  the  Pioneer  : 

THE   DOLE   OF   THE   KANSAS   POP. 

Nothing  to  talk  but  language, 

Nothing  to  hear  but  sound, 
Nothing  to  whittle  but  boxes, 

Nothing  to  plow  but  ground. 

Nothing  to  hold  but  aces, 

Nothing  to  hate  but  hash, 
Nothing  to  cheese  but  racket, 

Nothing  to  earn  but  cash. 


290  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

Nowhere  to  rise  but  upward, 
Nowhere  to  drop  but  down, 

Nowhere  to  be  but  in  it, 
Nowhere  to  stay  but  town. 

Nothing  to  seek  but  office. 
Nothing  to  drink  but  '"rye," 

Nothing  to  breathe  but  ozone, 
Nothing  to  eat  but  pie. 

Nothing  to  vote  but  ballots, 
Nothing  to  fear  but  naught, 

Nothing  to  howl  but  reform, 
Nothing  to  think  but  thought 

What  is  the  use  of  working? 

What  is  the  use  of  trying  ? 
Life  is  no  more  worth  living, 

Death  is  no  more  worth  dying. 

[Enter  stranger,  with  quick  step.] 

ALONZO.     "Pause  !     Gold  or  gore." 

STRANGER.     "I  defy  tliee." 

ALONZO.     "Defy  me  not.     Dost  thou  upon  that 

Sand  discern  that  object?  " 
STRANGER.     "I  do.     It  is  a  geode." 
ALONZO.     "It  is  not  a  geode." 
STRANGER.     "Then  a  feldspar  boulder." 
ALONZO.     "No,  no  !     It  is  a  skull." 
STRANGER.     "Impossible  ! — It  hath  no  cavity." 
ALONZO.     "Gaze  on  this  burnished  weapon: 

Dost  thou  aught  discover?  " 
STRANGER.      "I  do  not." 
ALONZO.     "Gaze  closer." 


THE  KANSAS  BANDIT.  291 

STRANGER.     "I  see  a  fly  speck." 
ALONZO.     "That  is  his  brain,  his  editorial  brain  by 
Ray  of  sunlight  desiccated.    Nay,  do  not  shrink 
With  horror,  but  come  down.     My  motto : 
Coin  or  Carnage." 
STRANGER.    "  I  am  a  lawyer,  and  I  stand  undaunted. 

Art  thy  name  Alonzo  ?  " 

ALONZO.     "It  art,  but  thine  the  duty  not  to  stand  a 
Gasing,  but  aghast.     Eliminate  thy  wealth. 

I  cannot  stand  and  dicker 

Now  with  thee, 
But  with  a  snicker 

Draw  my  snickersnee." 

STRANGER.    "Thou  art  of  no  more  force  than  a  last 
Year's  chattel  mortgage. 

Alonzo,  dost  remember  erst- 
While  before  a  Bourbon  county  jury  when  Jim, 
With  Ciceronian  voice  and  gesture,  thee  of  mule 
Abduction  did  accuse,  and  proved  it  by  some 
Dozen  witnesses,  although  thou  sworest  thou  wert 
In  Ernporia?     And  reckest  thou  not  how  thou  thy 
Grip  didst  lose,  and  how,  with  white  lips,  thou 
Saidst — 'Save  me  from  hard  labor,'  until  I  told 
Thee  that  I  had  Jim  fonl  ?      And  dost  thou  not 
Remember  how  that  jury  had  been  carefully 
Selected  from  sympathetic  granger  statesmen  who 
Only  read  the  "  Union  Labor  "  papers,  and  how 


292  RHYMES   OF  IRONQUILL. 

With  brilliant  panegyric  I  thy  honest  brow 
Applauded,  and  how  I  called  thee  a  hard-fisted 
Yeoman  —  victim,  I  said,  of  prostrate  labor  and 
Contraction,  seeking  for  bread  amid  the  ruins  of 
Chaotic  finance, —  victim,  I  said,  of  insufficient 
Circulation,  buffeted  by  rent  and  sleepless  usury. 
How  with  quixotic  rhetoric  I  did  fight  the  gilded^ 
Yampires  in  the  ambient  ether,  and  how  that 
Granger  jury  was  so  polly-foxed  that  they  did 
Find  a  verdict  of  'not  guilty'? 

Over  thy  past  draw  thou  the  dark 
Tarpaulin  of  oblivion,  and  let  me  pass,  while  round 
Myself  I  wrap  the  crusted  mantle  of  forensic 
Glory.     I  'Jl  be  Chief  Justice  YET." 
ALONZO.     "-'Tis  true — pass  on — but  stay.    Hast 

Thou  the  due-bill  that  I  gave  thee  for  thy 
Effort?" 

STRANGER.     "  I  have-est.     Behold  it !  " 
ALONZO.     "  I  know  thou  hast  no  money. — Lawyers 
Are  but  educated  paupers. — Still  I  can't 
Do  business  here  for  nothing.     So  far  I  've 
Operated  on  too  small  a  margin.     I  now 
Take  hold  and  freeze  onto  this  due-bill. 
In  pigmy  ways  I  hogmy  earnings  in.   (Takes 
Ull.)     Git !  " 

\Exit  lawyer  to  Garden  City. — Tableaux."] 


THE  KANSAS  BANDIT.  293 

(  ALONZO  soliloquizes.) 

"He  's  gone. — Behold,  the  sun  is  slowly  setting. 
Why  did  I  take  this  note?     It 's  only  'fiat.' 

It  is  n't  worth  the  trouble  of  the  getting. 
I  can't  hypothecate  the  thing  for  diet. 

It 's  payable  to  him,  and  I  forgot 
To  make  the  rnan  endorse  it  on  the  spot. 

But  it  is  good.     The  penmanship  's  proficient  — 
It  must  be  good  —  the  paper  's  white  and  tough. 

'Due  «n  demand' — that  ought  to  be  sufficient, 
And  certainly  the  sum  is  large  enough  ; 

And  why  the  thing  won't  buy  a  loaf  of  bread 
Is  a  conundrum  that  just  knocks  me  dead. 

It  seems  to  me  that  borrower  and  lender 
Have  neither  rights  the  other  should  respect  — 

That  each  man's  note  should  be  a  legal  tender, 
Abolishing  all  methods  to  collect. 

And  then  the  circulation  can  be  made 
Fully  responsive  to  the  wants  of  trade. 

The  sum  per  capita  in  circulation 
Must  be  fixed  up  by  Sherman,  right  away, 

Or  revolution  will  surprise  the  nation. 
One  thousand  dollars  to  the  head,  some  say, 

With  more  economy  would  pull  us  through, 
But  I  believe  I  'd  rather  have  it  two. 


294  RHYMES    OF  1RONQUILL. 

Yet,  'mid  all  this  calamity,  there  's  Ingalls  — 
What  hath  he  done  for  Kansas?     He  doth  flaunt 

His  brains  around,  and  with  the  nation  mingles, — 
But  it  is  cash,  not  brains,  the  people  want. 

Down,  down  witli  Ingalls  !  brains  don't  represent 
The  people  now  in  Kansas  worth  a  cent. 

[Tears  up  the  note  and  throws  it  away.~] 

The  sun  has  set.     The  road  no  victim  offers. 
I  'm  catching  cold.     Business  is  awful  dull. 

A  hollow  cough,  combined  with  hollow  coffers, — 
Unless  unto  some  museum  this  skull  — 

This  Kansas  editorial  skull,  I  sell, 
My  whole  day's  work  won't  pan  out  very  well." 

[A  barefooted  person,  with  spectacles,  is  seen 
coming.'] 

ALONZO.     "Halt!     Who  comes  there  ?    Art  thou  a 

Mound-builder,  or  a  Troubadour?  " 
STRANGER.     "I  am  a  friend  with  the  countersign." 
ALONZO.     "Advance,  friend,  and  give  the 

Countersign." 

STRANGER.     "Down  with  Ingalls." 
ALONZO.      "The  sentiment  thou  hast,  but  not  the 

Words.     The  words  are:  Soc  ET  TUUM. 

As  Elder  says, —  lthem  words  is  Latten.'" 
STRANGER.     "Sock  me  no  socks.     Did  not  I  upon 

The  field  of  battle  meet  Prince  Hal.  ? 

Where  now  is  Hal.  ?     In  those  pathetic 


THE  KANSAS  BANDIT.  295 

Words  of  poetess :   'The  bark  that  held  the 
Prince  peeled  off.'     When  the  7th  Dist. 
Did  my  sockless  fibula  behold,  they  yelled 
For  me,  and  it  was  good-bye  Hal.     I  know 
These  people.     Brains  they  do  not  want, 
For  if  they  did,  I'd  give  it  to  them. 
Hal.  did  not  know  what  beat  him — 'twas 
Lack  of  moisture  in  the  atmosphere.     He 
Was  the  victim  of  climatic  scarcity.     My 
District  expects  me  to  produce  territorial 
Humidity,  and  divide  the  rain-belt  with 
The  sea-board  States.     Ingalls  could  not 
Accomplish  it.     He  therefore  failed  to  be  a 
Statesman.     What  has  he  done  for  Kansas  ? 
All  she  needs  is  rain.     She  having  rain 
Has  grain,  and  having  grain  had  Ingalls. 
He  could  not  make  it  rain,  hence  naught 
For  Kansas  had  he  done.     Of  course  he 
Made  some  reputation  for  himself  and 
State,  and  all  the  Union  rang  with  Kansas 
And  with  Ingalls.     And  in  the  Senate, 
Leaning  up  against  his  own  backbone,  he 
Sat  and  ruled  most  royally,  as  to  the 
Intellectual  purple  born.     But  still  he 
Could  n't  make  it  rain,  and  now  we  've  got 
Him  down  ! 

As  to  the  earth  the  royal  ruin  falls, 
We  11  jeer  at  In  galls;—  accent  on  the 


298  RHYMES   OF  JRONQUILL. 

[He  passes  on. ;  drops  paper  from  pocket ;  ALONZO 
picJcs  it  up  and  reads  aloud.'] 

"Will  somebody  please  explain 
Why  we  do  not  get  any  rain  ? 

We  've  got  prohibition, 
Behold  our  position : 

No  whisky,  no  beer,  no  rain. 

Will  somebody  please  explain 
Why  we  have  n't  got  any  grain  ? 

It 's  lack  of  humidity, 
Kansas  aridity : 

Because  of  no  rain,  no  grain. 

Will  somebody  please  explain 
Why  we  have  n't  got  any  brain? 

Because  all  sterility 
Envies  ability. 

No  rain  and  no  grain  —  hence  no  brain." 

[ALONZO,  frightened.] 

"Ha  !    What  is  that  coming  up  the  road  ? 

It  has  a  most  peculiar  aspect. 

I  '11  speak  to  it.     What  art  thou  ? 

An  adverb?" 

THING.     "No.     A  high  moral  plane." 
ALONZO.     "  Thou  art  a  strange  thing.    Thy  object  ? " 
H.  M.  P.    "The  object  of  a  high  moral  plane  is  to 
Get  a  reputation  for  being  better  than  any 


THE  KANSAS  BANDIT.  297 

Other  thing.     Not  to  le  better,  but  to  get  the 
Reputation.     Climb  on  ;  our  object  is  to  purify 
Politics  by  running  it  ourselves.     To  banish 
'Iridescent  dreams.'     To  take  up  prohibition, 
Female  suffrage  and  the  so-called  '  moral '  isms 
That  we  can  handle.     We  stuck  a  man  in 
Wichita  for  selling  beer  one  afternoon 
Seventy  years  in  jail,  with  27,000  dollars  fine. 
We're  down  on  Ingalls  for  another  reason  — 
He  's  an  agnostic  and  blasphemer.     His 
Speeches  show  he  don't  believe  that  there's 
Another  happy  world  where  he  can  go  and 
Live  forever  with  us  moralists.     Then 
He  is  vain,  and  vanity  is  what  high  moral 
Planes  abhor.     He  lacks  that 
Element  of  Christian  humility  that  should 
Say  unto  the  nearest  Presiding  Elder — thy 
Will  in  politics,  not  mine,  be  done.     We 
Think  morality  requires  a  change,  and  that 
His  vanity  should  be  let  down.     We  think 
That  on  the  tombstone  of  his  politics  the 
Epitaph  should  be : 

Up  was  he  stuck, 

And  in  the  very  upness 

Of  his  stucktitude 

He  fell." 

[n,  M.  P.  passes  on."] 


298  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

ALONZO.     "I  don't  believe  I  want  to  climb 
Up  on  that  thing.     It  holds  a  tough-looking 
But  congenial  crowd.     Prohibition  was 
Once  the  thing  to  win  with,  but  it  ain't  so 
Any  more.     Calamity  is  what  now  goes. 
Prohibition  is  now  the  last  hope  which 
Weak  minds  have  for  getting  into  office. 
But  where  's  my  cash  upon  this  lonesome 
Road  ?     There  's  no  free  silver.  —  Ho  1 
Who  comes  here,  in  the  twilight  gloom  ?  " 

STRANGER.     "A  'noble  granger,'  who  with  lung 
Voluminous  would  fain  be  heard.     My 
Name  is  Calamity  Bill.     I  have  a  way  of 
Beating^mortgages. " 

ALONZO.     "Art  tho.u  armed  ?  " 

STRANGER.     "Yes  —  with  campaign  documents." 

ALONZO.     "If  thou  hast  any  gold  or  silver,  extract 
It  from  thy  clothing.    I  am  a  hard-money 
Bandit.     My  demands  are  now  payable  in 
Coin  4rl2|-  grains,  90  per  cent,  fine." 

STRANGER.     "I  have  none." 

ALONZO.     "Greenbacks  or  national-bank  notes?" 

STRANGER.     "None." 

ALONZO.     "  Bonds,  coupons,  or  silver  certificates  ?  " 

STRANGER.     "  None. " 

ALONZO.     "Notes,  mortgages,  securities?" 

STRANGER.     "None." 


THE  KANSAS  BANDIT.  299 

ALONZO.     "Checks,  drafts,  bills  of  lading,  or 
Negotiable  paper  \ " 

STRANGER.     "None." 

ALONZO.     "  Hast  anything  within  thy  pockets  ?  " 

STRANGER.     "Only  tobacco." 

ALONZO.     "  Fine-cut  or  plug  ?  " 

STRANGER.     "Plug." 

ALONZO.     "I  chew  not  plug  —  I  'm  a  dime-novel 
Bandit.     I  have  no  habits.     I  am  a  great 
And  earnest  soul  in  deep  disguise.     By 
Force  of  business  necessity  compelled 
To  rob  and  steal  because  there  is  only 
Twenty  dollars  per  capita  in  actual 
Circulation.     All  the  rest  is  hoarded. 
Yictirn  I  am  of  Sherman  and  the 
Administration.     Hast  thou  good  clothes? 
It's  dark  —  I  cannot  see." 

STRANGER.     "I  have  at  home,  not  here. 
Intending  to  address  the  sturdy 
Yeomanry,  and  whoop  them  up  from  an 
Industrial  standpoint,  I  this  night  did  don 
A  suit  of  jeans  for  the  occasion,  such 
As  I  husk  corn  in." 

ALONZO.     "Art  thy  boots  good  ?  " 

STRANGER.     "Out  at  the  toes  and  minus  soles. 
I  borrowed  them." 

ALONZO.     "Thy  hat?" 


300  RHYMES    OF  IRON  QUILL. 

STRANGER.     "I  punched  a  hole  a  few  yards  back, 
And  through  the  crown  a  matted  lock 
I  pulled.     It 's  gayly  waving  through 
The  orifice,  although  thou  seest  it  not. 
I  had  to-night  intended  to  explain 
Unto  the  bone  and  sinew  of  our  country 
How  Sherman  and  McKinley  of  a  wealthy 
People  made  a  nation  full  of  paupers. 
How  the  Government  should  issue 
Money  at  one  per  cent,  on  farms,  and 
Should  build  vast  warehouses,  wherein 
The  products  of  the  country  can  be  stored 
And  chattel-mortgaged  to  the  Government. 
And  how  the  way  to  make  a  dollar  is 
To  stamp  a  piece  of  paper  and  then 
Call  it  one.     Language,  not  cash, 
Is  all  I  have  just  now." 

ALONZO.     "Condemn  the  luck!     There  is 

No  scope  for  honest  labor.     Every  avenue 
Is  walled.     The  horrible  contraction 
Of  the  currency  has  made  less  beef, 
Less  pork,  less  everything.     Around 
All  business  enterprises  such  barrier 
Is  drawn  that  no  one  can  an  honest 
Living  make.     Behold  the  absolute 
Prostration  from  which  the  shores 
Of  classic  Paint  are  suf'ring.     See 
The  depression  that  me  present  business 


THE  KANSAS  BANDIT.  301 

Now  endures.     Oh,  desperation !     Sajl 
See  here.     I  must  make  business  lively. 
I  cannot  wait  the  slow  and  tedious 
Restoration  of  those  days  when  no  man 
Worked  yet  everything  was  had. 
Prepare  for  death  !     I  think  that  I  can  turn 
An  honest  penny  by  finding  thee  when 
A  reward  is  offered.     If  all  were  idle, 
Business  won't  revive.     Something 
Accomplished,  something  done,  must  earn 
A  night's  repose.     I  have  within  my  heart 
Hot  cells  —  " 

STRANGER.     "Shut  up!     Hear  me,  thou  victim 
Of  commercial  chaos. — Down  at 
A  school-house  there  expectant  waits 
A  Union  Labor  and  Alliance  caucus. 
The  F.  M.  B.'s  are  coming  in,  and  we 
Will  talk  of  Ingalls  and  of  money, 
Ocala,  and  the  platform  of  St.  Louis. 
I  go  to  tell  how  laws  must  needs  be 
Most  unjust  that  will  not  let  a 
Person  beat  a  creditor.     I  have 
A  money  scheme,  most  noble  Bandit, 
That  beats  two  of  yours.     I  can  rob  more 
Men  in  fifteen  minutes  than  you  can  in  years. 
With  dangers  yours  is  fraught,  with  mine 
Is  none.     Shall  I  reveal  ?" 

ALONZO.     "Go  on." 


302  RHYMES   OF  IRONQUILL. 

STKANGER.     "Thy  style  is  antiquated.    Men  with 
Views  like  yours  both  schemes  have  tried, 
And  the  reflecting  ligkt  of  his'try  hath 
Taught  that  one  can  rob  more  people  ten 
To  one  by  the  new  process  than  the  old. 
First. — Ingalls  must  be  beaten.    In  his  stead 
A  man  of  the  Alliance  must  be  placed,  here 
And  elsewhere — a  man  of  hair.    We  must 
Have  Peffer  or  a  mattress.     Then  we  will 
Take  the  printing-presses,  and  make  money, 
Loan  to  farmers  at  a  nominal  per  cent,  on 
Land  by  farmers  valued.    Make  the  money 
Legal  tender,  then  we  '11  scoop  'em  in. 
When  once  we  get  the  timid,  invalid  and 
Weak  to  lose  their  faith  in  a  metallic 
Currency,  we  've  got  'em.     They  are  left. 
We  cannot  reach  the  man  who  pins 
His  faith  to  coin,  except  to  blackguard  him, 
And  then  he  only  laughs.     But  the  great 
Masses  with  our  doctrine  stuffed,  under 
Delusion  give  us  property  for  paper.     Of 
Honesty  it  hath  a  certain  glamour.     We 
Hold  the  truck  the  paper  represents. 
They  hold  the  paper,  waiting  its  redeemer, 
Like  Job  of  old  did  his,  till  time  hath 
Worn  them  out  and  made  them  toss  the 
Sponge.     Thy  name  would  give  addition 
To  our  ranks.     Come,  go  with  me  and 


THE  KANSAS  BANDIT.  303 

Make  thine  opening  exhortation.     Be  no 
Longer  a  Dime  Novel  Bandit,  clad  in  plume 
And  bootlegs. —  But  —  shout  "Calamity." 

[Tableaux. — ALONZO  seen  struggling  with  his  con- 
science ;  at  last  he  yields,  and  speaks.] 

"This  recent  scheme,  I  hardly  understand  it; 
There  's  much  more  to  it  than  I  first  surmised. 

It  must  commend  itself  to  any  bandit, 
Although,  perhaps,  it 's  somewhat  civilized. 

But  it 's  deficient  in  one  thing  I  prize  — 
To  wit :  a  healthy  outdoor  exercise. 

But  still,  I  '11  go  and  see  what  there  is  in  it, 
And  try  an  exhortation.     Though  unknown, 

I  '11  give  them  for  about  a  half  a  minute 
What  Prentis  calls  a  15-cent  cyclone. 

Here  in  the  raging  Paint  my  blade  I  throw, 
And  to  the  anti-Ingalls  caucus  go. 

Now  I  can  shine  as  in  a  real  dime  novel, 
Although  not  dressed  in  bootlegs  and  red  plume, 

Nor  robbing  hen-roosts  near  some  settler's  hovel, 
Tackling  some  drunken  snoozer  in  the  gloom. 

To  be  a  statesman  now  to  me  belongs, — 
Like  faro  checks,  I  '11  stack  the  people's  wrongs. 


304  RHYMES   OF  IRON  QUILL. 

Let 's  howl  sub-treasury — free  cash  —  and  Peffer ; 
Let 's  go  back  on  our  mortgages  —  of  course  — 
While  through  our  statesman's  whiskers  the  wild 

zephyr, 

The  Kansas  zephyr,  skips  with  solemn  force. 
We  '11  down  'em,  and  we  '11  keep  'em  down,  that 's 

plain ; 
We  '11  keep  'em  down  as  long  as  it  don't  rain. 

With  flashing  speed  the  pulse  of  evening  tingles, 
Lo  !  in  the  East  comes  the  'free-silver'  moon  ; 

Come  on,  come  on  —  we  '11  whoop  it  up  to  Ingalls. 
We  are  all  statesmen  —  let  us  all  reune; 

To  this  Alliance  caucus  let  us  go. 
Ha  !  Ingalls,  ha  !  thou  meet'st  thy  overthrow." 


NEUTRALIA.  305 


NEUTRALIA; 

OR, 

LOVE,  PHILOSOPHY,  AND  WAR. 

[My  friend's  story.] 


CHAPTER    I. 

Well !  they  fired  upon  Fort  Sumter;  I  applied  for 

a  commission, 
And  I  got  it  through  the  efforts  of  a  one-horse 

politician, 
And  asssmed  the  fearful  grandeur  that  befitted  the 

position. 
Being  young,  I  got  a  detail  on  the  staff  of  General 

Skubobs ; 
Then   I  went  and  bought  a  quantity  of  military 

dubobs — 

First,  a  lot  of  gilded  buttons,  feathers,  shoulder- 
straps  and  sashes, 
Then   a  little  gilt-edged   sabre,  made  for  cutting 

swells  —  not  gashes; 
Then  I  went  and  bought  nay  orderly  a  gorgeous 

coal-black  charger, 
For  myself  I  bought  another  that  was  just  as  black, 

and  larger; 
Then  with  princely  grace  displayed  them  at  the 

general's  headquarters, 
And  I  signed  "By  order  of,"  to  the  military  orders. 


306  RHYMES   OF  IRONQUILL. 

Now  I  pledge  my  sacred  honor  that  there  's  nothing 

that  could  charm  me 
Like  a  detail  at  the  office  of  a  man  who  ran  an 

army; 
And,  I'll  tell  you   confidentially,  I  honored    the 

position, 
And  I  served  with  much  eclat,  (if  you  know  its 

definition.) 

Very  senseless  is  the  public,  very  obstinate  and 

mulish, 
In  its  reverence  for  trifles  that  are  nothing  else  than 

foolish ; 
And  it  honors   gilded  buttons  —  makes  no    odds 

where  it  may  find  them  — 
But  it  never  sees  the  person  who  is  standing  up 

behind  them. 


CHAPTER  n. 

What  the  world  at  large  calls  "  rank "  is  a  most 
imposing  building, 

An  enormous  pasteboard  palace,  decked  with  min- 
arets and  gilding; 

Sages  may  pronounce  it  empty,  and  the  preachers, 
transitory, 

But  it  is  n't  any  difference  as  long  as  it  is 
GLOKT. 


NEUTRALIA.  307 

Go  and  galvanize  a  peddler,  go  and  get  the  man  a 

scepter : 
Won't  he  rule  his  little  kingdom  just  as  if  he  'd 

always  kept  her? 
Go  and  stick  a  lot  of  tinsel  and  some  gilded  buttons 

on  him : 
Don't  the  princely  little   notions  settle  suddenly 

upon  him? 

Yes,  before  this  piece  of  tinseling,  the  world's  ver- 
tebral column, 

Ain't  it  bended  in  a  manner  that  is  comically  sol- 
emn? 

Go  and  get  a  third-class  drayman,  stupid,  awkward 

as  a  camel : 
I  can  wrap  him  up  in  purple,  I  can  dope  him  with 

enamel ; 
Then  I'll  call  the  man  a  "monarch,"  and  will  put 

him  in  a  palace, 
And  I'll  peg  some  courtiers  round  him,  dressed 

conspicuously  gallus ; 
Then  I'll  gamble  off  my  raiment,  that,  as  certain 

as  I  try  it  — 
That  as  sure  as  I  invest  him  with  the  potent,  royal 

fiat, 

All  the  world  will  rush  to  honor  him,  in  one  con- 
vulsive riot. 


308  RHYMES   OF  IRONQUILL. 

As  regards  these  sage  reflections,  it  is  very  much 

essential 
That  you  keep  them  to  yourself,  for  I  got  them 

confidential. 
Just  as  soon  as  I  liad  heard  them,  off  I  went  and 

bought  a  sabre, 
And  resolved  to  go  for  GLORY,  on  somebody  else's 

labor ; 
And  my  dreamings  of  the  future,  with  their  hues 

kaleidoscoptic, 
Painted  me  a  taurine  youth  with  a  very  vitreous 

optic. 

Then  unto  myself  I  said  :  While  these  skies  are  so 
propitious, 

I  will  go  and  see  the  elephant,  and  be  like  old 
Fabricius. 

So  I  went  and  took  a  detail  at  the  general's  head- 
quarters, 

And  I  signed  his  name,  and  mine,  to  the  military 
orders. 


CHAPTER    III. 

Near  the  post  where  we  were  stationed  was  a  city, 

large  and  growing, 
And  its  avenues  and  houses  were  with  business 

overflowing ; 


NEUTRAL/A.  309 

On  the  hills,  beyond  the  echo  of  the  fierce  com- 
mercial scramble, 

Were  the  private  houses  builded,  with  magnifi- 
cence Alhambral. 

And  the  handsome,  happy  maidens,  in  unending 
swarms,  were  flocking 

Down  the  sidewalks,  through  the  city,  stopping, 
shopping,  and  a-blocking 

Up  the  pavements ;  while  the  gay  boys  were  con- 
tinually dashing 

Through  the  highways,  with  the  lightning-legged 
horseflesh  they  were  lashing. 

I  had  scarcely  made  an  entrance  to  my  military 
station 

Ere  the  city  balls  and  parties  sent  me  up  an  invi- 
tation. 

There  was  one  thing  very  certain  —  I  was  far  from 
being  handsome, 

But  I  am  willing  to  affirm  that  I  thought  that  I 
could  dance  some. 

And  through  all  this  vale  of  sorrow,  I  was  never 
known  to  shirk  a 

Chance  to  enter  into  the  spirit  of  a  waltz  or  a 
mazurka; 

And  I  find  by  computation  that  I  've  worn  out 
many  millions 

Of  this  white  Wisconsin  flooring  lumber,  dancing 
square  cotillions. 


310  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

Well !  the  gilded  soldier  buttons  I  was  wearing 
seemed  to  blind  'em ; 

While  unseen,  unknown  and  friendless,  I  was  stand- 
ing up  behind  'em ; 

But  with  many  happy  moments  my  official  stay 
was  flavored, 

And  I  found  myself  a  guest,  even  more  than 
honored,  favored. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

Well !  there  came  a  grand  old  soiree,  and  the  city 
all  attended, 

And  the  hall  was  hung  with  flags  and  flowers,  and 
decorations  splendid ; 

And  the  chandeliers  were  shaded  with  a  tissue 
gauze  that  sent  a 

Sort  of  sifted  light  —  suffused  with  a  delicate  ma- 
genta. 

And  the  splendid  jewels  glistened,  and  the  ribbons 

and  the  laces 
In  the  tinted  light  seemed  floating,  like  the  drapery 

of  graces ; 
And  the  rich  brocaded  textures,  with  their  rash, 

peculiar  rustle, 
Roared  a  ceaseless,  sullen  bass,  to  the  all-pervading 

bustle. 


NEUTRALIA.  311 

Round  the  room  the  ladies  floated,  in  their  moire 

antique  and  satin, 
While  the  men,  behind  large  smiles,  bowed  to  this  'n 

and  to  that  'n, 
And  the  floor  was  full  of  waltzers,  and  the  air  was 

laughter-laden, 
While  the  orchestra  it  sobbed  like  a  broken-hearted 

maiden. 


And  it  moaned,  and  shrieked,  and  sobbed,  in  a 

wail  for  human  folly, 
While  the  fiddlers  chewed  tobacco  and  looked  very 

solemncolly ; 
Then    above    the   caller's  calling,  and    the   wild, 

tempestuous  chatter, 
Rose  the  grand  combined  results  of  the  aggregated 

clatter. 


It  was  just  about  this  moment  that  I  made  a  sud- 
den entry, 

That  I  added  to  the  list  of  the  dithyrambic 
gentry, 

And  I  hardly  had  the  time  to  appreciate  it 
fully, 

When  a  chap  I  did  n't  know  said  the  thing  was 
mighty  bully. 


312  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

I  demanded  then  who  HE  was,  and  I  frowned  upon 

the  creature; 
He  confessed  his  name  was  Boggs,  that  his  father 

was  a  preacher ; 
Then  inquired  of  me  who  I  was,  and  I  said  I  was 

an  aid-de- 
Camp  upon   the  staff  of  Skubobs;  then  he  said 

there  was  a  lady 
That  he  'd  like  to  have  me  dance  with ;  I  replied 

that  I  was  willing, 
But  I  thought  I  really  needed  some  preliminary 

drilling; 
But  he  said  it  was  no  matter,  and  he  thought  that 

I  would  answer, 

For  the  lady  he  would  find  me  was  a  very  charm- 
ing dancer. 

She  would  show  me  through  the  changes,  if'  I 
needed  the  instruction ; 

Then  I  told  him  to  propel  with  his  threatened  in- 
troduction. 

Now,  my  backwardness  was  "stuff,"  for  I  had  a 
certain  notion 

That  I  simply  was  immense  on  the  "poetry  of 
motion." 


NEUTRALIA.  313 

Well  1  of  human  nature's  phases,  it 's  the  funniest 

and  oddest, 
When  a  man  of  frightful  cheek  makes  an  effort  to 

be  modest. 


CHAPTER  v. 

Yes,  I  took  the  introduction ;  Boggs  alleged  her 

name  was  Laura; 

So  I  made  my  finest  bow,  and  I  eyed  the  lady  for  a- 
Bout  a  half  a  dozen  seconds;  then  I  asked  her  to 

determine 
If  she  'd  have  me  for  a  partner  in  the  next  ensuing 

German. 
Then  she  smiled  like  the  Madonna,  and  she  told 

me  "Yes"  so  neatly, 
That  I   drifted    out  to  sea,  and  she  captured  me 

completely. 

I  have  heacd  them  talk  of  Guido,  of  Yandyke,  and 

of  Florello ; 
But  I  '11  take  my  deposition  that  there  never  was 

a  fellow 
Who  could  plaster  any  pigment  onto  canvas,  or 

on  paper, 

Or  could  ever  make  a  picture  that  could  ever  hold 
a  taper, 


314  RHYMES   OF  IRON  QUILL. 

Or  could  ever  be  compared,  as  to  happiness  of  fea- 
ture, 

Or  to  symmetry  of  form,  with  the  sunny-hearted 
creature 

That  was  pointed  out  by  Boggs,  the  descendant  of 
the  preacher. 

Let  old  Yirgil  praise  the  naiads  of  the  rapid,  blue 

Eurotas, 
Spokeshave   dance  his  airy  fairies  on    the    light 

leaves  of  the  lotus  — 
If  you  set  them  down  by  Laura  they  would  never 

get  a  notice ; 
She  had  such  a  calm,  bland  way,  and  her  tongue 

was  never  running 
In  an  endless,  eager  effort  to  say  something  very 

cunning; 
And  she  looked  you  in  the  eye  when  she  spoke  or 

when  she  listened, 
And  you  always  knew  her  feelings  by  the  way  her 

blue  eyes  glistened. 

There  may  be  a  woman  fairer,  with  more  elegant 

demeanor, 
With  more  useful  information,  calmer,  lovelier, 

serener — 
But,  if  there  be  such  a  woman,  this  deponent  hath 

not  seen  her. 


NEUTRALIA.  315 

CHAPTER    VI. 

On  her  finger  gleamed  a  diamond,  with  prismatic 

hues  incessant, 
On  her  neck  a  string  of  pearls,  solid  moonlight, 

opalescent ; 
And    upon  her  arms  two  bracelets,  representing 

sprays  of  laurel, 
With  their  petioles  of  gold  and  their  foliage  of  coral. 

Or,  at  least  they  say  she  wore  them  on  the  evening 

of  the  soiree ; 
If  she  did,  I  never  saw  them  —  all  I  thought  or  saw 

was  Laura; 
But  I  guess  she  must  have  worn  them,  for  the 

pompous,  ugly  Madam 
Parvenoodle  since  informed  me  that  "  old  Banger's 

daughter  had  'em  " ; 
But  that  all  of  Laura's  jewels  were  much  cheaper 

arid  much  duller, 
A.nd  inferior  to  hers,  both  in  brilliancy  and  color. 

Now,  this  Madam  Parvenoodle,  who  disparaged 

everybody, 

Was  the  very  beau  ideal  aristocracy  of  shoddy, 
And  her  husband  made  his  money,  if  I  am  not 

much  mistaken, 
On  a  recent  army  contract  on  some  ancient  army 

bacon ; 


316  RHYMES    OF  IRONQUILL. 

And,  throughout  her  wide  acquaintance,  she  divided 

up  her  slander 
As  between  Jier  friends  and  enemies,  with  most 

impartial  candor; 
And  she  had  a  way  of  talking  so  that  folks  could 

understand  her. 

Well,  that  night  has  flown  forever,  with  its  floors 
so  smoothly  waxen ! 

Gone  are  all  those  chestnut  ringlets  —  gone  those 
tresses  brown  and  flaxen ; 

Gone  those  stand-up  paper  collars  —  gone  that 
faultless  Anglo-Saxon ; 

But  they  glitter  in  my  fancy  like  the  distant  multi- 
hedral 

Steeples,  domes  and  sunlit  turrets  of  some  beauti- 
ful cathedral. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

All  the  next  day,  and  the  next,  that  succeeded  the 

grand  soiree, 
I  was  crazy  as  a  June-bug  —  all  I  thought  of  was 

Miss  Laura ; 
All  the  office  work  got  tangled  with  the  thoughts 

of  "fields  Elysian," 
And  the  ink  was  slung  regardless  of  a  requisite 

precision ; 


NEUTRALIA.  317 

All  the  post  returns  got  mixed,  all  the  details  and 

the  orders, 
Till    old    Skubobs    made   remark   that  onr   mind 

seemed  on  the  borders 
Of    insanity    or   tremens  —  said    he    thought    he 

could  discover 
Sad   cerebral  indications  of  the  drunkard  or  the 

lover. 
Here  he  tipped  a  knowing  twinkle  at  the  cavalry 

inspector, 
Colonel  Skopendyke,  and  Chopemup,  the  medical 

director. 

That  was  well  enough  for  Skubobs ;  but  the  sutler 
chipped  in  boldly 

With  an  old  azoic  joke,  and  I  told  him,  somewhat 
coldly, 

That  if  any  individual  should  start  a  conversation 

That  would  make  this  girl  the  subject  of  the  slight- 
est observation, 

I  would  jam  his  osfrontalis,  (that 's  a  Latin  name 
I  borrowed 

For  a  bone  a  person  carries,  I  believe  it 's  in  his 
forehead.) 

If  there 's  any  human  being  that  can  claim  my 
deep  aversion, 

It 's  a  sutler  in  the  army.  It  may  be  a  foul  asper- 
sion; 


318  RHYMES   OF  IRONQUILL. 

But    when   moralists    are    satirizing    avarice    and 

mammon, 
Let  the  philanthropic  skeptic  who  inclines  to  think 

it  gammon, 
Watch  a  regimental  sutler  selling  "bitters"  and 

canned  salmon. 

Skubobs  was  a  nice  old  man,  very  courteous  and 
pleasant, 

Brave  as  a  Nemean  lion,  in  a  battle  omni- 
present ; 

He  appreciated  fun,  was  a  dignified  old  joker, 

Was  a  splendid  judge  of  horseflesh,  was  an  ever- 
lasting smoker, 

Punished  ardent  spirits  mildly,  was  a  perfect  whale 
at  poker ; 

And  he  knew  his  occupation,  for  he  'd  had  a  life- 
time training 

In  the  theory  of  war,  and  the  practice  of  cam- 
paigning. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

There  is  something  in  a  flag,  and  a  little  burnished 

eagle, 
That  is  more  than  emblematic  —  it  is  glorious,  it 's 

regal. 


NEUTRALIA.  319 

You  may  never  live  to  feel  it,  you  may  never  be 

in  danger, 
You  may  never  visit  foreign  lands,  and  play  the 

role  of  stranger ; 
You  may  never  in  the  army  check  the  march  of  an 

invader, 
You  may  never  on  the  ocean  cheer  the  swarthy 

cannonader ; 
But  if  these  should  happen  to  you,  then,  when  age 

is  on  you  pressing, 
And  your  great  big,  booby  boy  comes  to  ask  your 

final  blessing, 
You  will  tell  him :  Son  of  mine,  be  your  station 

proud  or  frugal, 
When  your  country  calls  her  children,  and  you 

hear  the  .blare  of  bngle, 
Don't  you  stop  to  think  of  Kansas,  or  the  quota  of 

your  county, 
Don't  you  go  to  asking  questions,  don't  you  stop 

for  pay  or  bounty, 
But  you  volunteer  at   once;    and  you  go  where 

orders  take  you, 
And  obey  them  to  the  letter  if  they  make  you  or 

they  break  you ; 
Hunt  that  flag,  and   then  stay  with  it,   be  you 

wealthy  or  plebeian  ; 
Let  the  women  sing  the  dirges,  scrape  the  lint  and 

chant  the  paean. 


320  RHYMES   OF  IRONQUILL. 

Though  the  magazines   and  journals   teem    with 

anti-war  persuasion, 
And  the  stay-at-homes  and  cowards  gladly  take  the 

like  occasion, 
Don't  you  ever  dream  of  asking,  "Is  the  war  a 

right  or  wrong  one?" 
You  are  in  it,  and  your  duty  is  to  make  the  fight 

a  strong  one, 
And  you  stay  till  it  is  over,  be  the  war  a  short  01 

long  one ; 
Make  amends  when  war  is  over,  then  the  power 

with  you  is  lying, 
Then,  if  wrong,  do  ample  justice — but  that  flag, 

you  keep  it  flying ; 

If  that  flag  goes  down  to  ruin,  time  will  then,  with- 
out a  warning, 
Turn   the  dial  back  to  midnight,  and  the  world 

must  wail  till  morning. 

CHAPTER    IX. 

Well !  to  shorten  this  narration,  and  prevent  un- 
due expansion 

Of  a  melancholy  story,  I  will  merely  say,  the  man- 
sion 

Of  old  Banger  saw  me  often,  in  response  to  invita- 
tion, 

As  the  choice,  acknowledged  "brute"  of  the  "fair- 
est of  creation." 


NEUTRALIA.  321 

And  the  fairest  used  to  send  me  a  diurnal  little 

glyphic 

Of  the  hiero-  variety — that  demoiselle  lucific; 
And  to  parties,  balls  and  concerts  we  did  very  often 

go  forth, 
And  we  talked  of  love  and  romance,  moonshine, 

poetry,  and  so  forth. 

By  the  sacred  muses  nine,  and  the  elves  and  fairies 
with  'em, 

You  can  just  presume  to  reckon  that  I  got  to  sling- 
ing rhythm ; 

Oh,  the  way  I  set  'em  up  —  this  young  lady  of 
Caucasian 

Antecedents,  from  her  lover  got  a  stated  daily 
ration 

Of  consolidated  "bosh "done  up  somewhat  in  this 
fashion : 

CHAPTER  x. 
(Ahem ! ) 

Am  I  but  the  sport  of  fancy? 

Necromancy, 
Has  she  taken 

Me  in  charge? 
My  ideas,  are  they  shattered, 

So  that  scattered 
They  forsaken 

Roam  at  large? 


322  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

Oh,  I  'm  crazy  as  a  loon ! 

For  this  very  afternoon 

Down  the  street  I  saw  her  sailing  like  a  barge. 


There  's  a  certain  sort  of  feeling 

That  comes  stealing 
Over  me 

When  around  her; 
Every  one  has  an  ideal. 

Is  mine  real? 
Can  it  be, 

Have  I  found  her? 
Is  it  she,  is  it  not? 
That 's  the  question  I  have  got  — 
It's  a  question  I  am  going  to  propound  her. 


Never  was  a  knight  more  eager 

To  beleaguer 
Any  town 

That  was  walled; 
Or  to  batter 

Castles  flatter 
At  the  bidding  of  a  crown 

When  it  called 
Than  am  I,  and  I  would  go 
Almost  anywhere,  you  know, 
Why  1  I  'd  lay  the  mountains  low, 


NEUTRALIA.  3S3 

Miss  ray  dinner, 

Catch  a  comet,   scare    an    earthquake,   drain   the 

ocean ; 

Crack  a  planet  like  a  nut,  stop  the  motion 
Of  the  suu.  and  moon  and  stars,  if  I  could  win  her. 


CHAPTER    XI. 

It's  a  fact  that's  very  certain,  man  is  naturally 
stupid, 

And  he  somehow  falls  in  love,  and  he  lays  it  all  to 
Cupid ; 

And  he  goes  to  rhapsodizing,  and  his  comprehen- 
sion narrow 

Shields  his  idiotic  folly  with  the  allegoric  arrow. 

And  he  throws  away  his  time,  and  he  throws  away 

his  talents  — 
That 's  the  way  it  was  with  me,  and  I  guess  I  'm 

like  the  balance ; 
And  he  loses  just  that  moment  all  his  judgment 

and  discretion, 
When  a  female  little  woman  gets  him  fairly  in 

possession. 

When  a  man  is  "dead  in  love,"  the  successful 

rumination 
Of  the  plainest  kind  of  gum  is  a  difficult  vocation. 


324  RHYMES   OF  IRONQUILL. 

"Ah  !   this  thing  they  call  affection  is  a  thing  that 's 

very  shifting," 
Argued  Skopendyke,  the  colonel,  when  he  saw  rny 

matters  drifting; 
"I  had  better  cut  him  out,  better  give  the  youth  a 

lifting — 

Yes,  I'll  break  up  these  arrangements,  for  I  know 

that  he  '11  be  gladder 
In  a  dozen  years  from  now,  than  he  would  be  if 

he  had  her ; 
And  I  '11  get  the  girl  myself,  and  the  wedding  vow 

will  pass  its 
Sort  of  warranty  conveyance  to  old  Banger's  specie 

assets." 

Then  he  started  in  to  do  it,  and  he  got  an  intro- 
duction, 

And  before  I  knew  my  danger  he  was  carrying 
destruction 

On  the  right  flank  and  the  left,  through  my  hopes 
and  my  ambitions, 

And  assaulting,  one  by  one,  all  my  salient  posi- 
tions. 

This  same  colonel  was  a  person  very  chatty,  very 

fluent, 
Full  of  talky-talk  and  smiles,  and  a  perfect  social 

truant ; 


NEUTRALIA.  325 

He  had  never  been  contented,  he  had  always  been 
a  rambler, 

He  was  everywhere  at  home,  an  adventurer  and 
gambler; 

He  was  just  the  style  of  person  so  successful  in  re- 
cruiting, 

And  it  got  him  a  commission ;  but  when  bugles 
got  to  tooting, 

He  skipped  back  and  "grabbed  a  root";  for  he 
could  n't  stand  the  shooting; 

He  had  not  the  slightest  symptom  of  a  shadow  of 
a  fraction 

Of  a  principle  of  honor  or  integrity  of  action ; 

He  had  flown  o'er  land  and  sea,  as  a  sort  of  human 
condor, 

Seeking  for  a  girl  and  fortune  he  could  pounce 
upon  and  squander. 

So,  in  dealing  with  a  woman  there  was  nothing  to 
restrict  him; 

One  could  never  be  his  idol,  one  could  always  be 
his  victim ; 

And  there  isn't  a  canal  that  has  ever  yet  suc- 
ceeded 

In  developing  a  mule  having  half  the  cheek  that 
he  did. 


3-36  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

CHAPTER    XII. 

When  the  status  of  affairs  came  before  my  obser- 
vation, 

I  lit  out  for  Laura's  mansion,  and  embraced  —  the 
first  occasion 

To  suggest  how  much  I  liked  her ;  when  I  had 
her  mind  refreshed  on 

That  to  me  important  topic,  I  propounded  her  a 
question : 

Would  she  have  me?  would  she  not?  She  re- 
quested me  to  bother 

That  outlandish  old  persimmon  that  she  called  her 
DEAR,  KIND  father. 

Well  1  I  tipped  back  in  my  chair  —  found  the 
armholes  of  my  "weskit," — 

Stuck  my  thumbs  in  —  viewed  the  ceiling — and  — 
concluded — that — I  'd  "resk"  it. 


Old  man  Banger  was  a  crabbed,  overbearing  cross- 
grained  banker, 

And  he  held  onto  his  money  as  a  ship  does  to  its 
anchor. 

That  a  poor  man  could  be  honest  was  a  fact  he 
always  scouted ; 

That  the  end  of  man  was  money  was  a  postulate 
undoubted. 


NEUTRALIA.  327 

And  he  worked,  and  tugged,  and  worked,  with  the 
grirn  determination 

That  he  'd  gobble  all  the  currency  there  was  in  cir- 
culation. 

Life  for  him  had  just  two  virtues,  and  these  two  he 
always  noticed  : 

They  were  "Never  overdraw,"  and  "Protect  your 
note  from  protest." 


When  I  went  to   interview  him  —  Laura's  dear, 

beloved  "paternal" — 
There  I  found  him  in  his  office,  in  the  evening, 

with  the  colonel; 
And  the  colonel  was  a-bragging  of  the  wealth  that 

HE  was  wielding ; 
Of  the  real  estate  HE  owned,  and  the  rental  it  was 

yielding, 
And  he  went  on  telling  Banger  how  his  ardent 

love  was  centered 
On  the  blue-eyed  little  Laura,  when  I  came,  and 

knocked,  and  entered. 

Just  as  soon  as  I  beheld  them,  I  as  quickly  appre- 
hended 

That  my  goose  had  just  been  cooked,  and  my  love 
affair  was  ended ; 


328  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

But  I  could  not  stop  my  action,  it  was  idle  to  re- 
trace it, 

And  although  I  saw  my  danger,  I  determined  I 
would  face  it. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

All  I  had  to  say  I  said  ;  but  a  glimmer  of  discredit 

Overcame  old  Banger's  features  just  the  moment 
that  I  said  it ; 

And  he  rose  upon  his  feet,  and  he  paced  the  room 
a  minute, 

And  he  kept  his  eye  upon  me  with  a  world  of  sar- 
casm in  it. 


"Want  my  daughter,  little  Laura!  Well,  I  guess 
that  I  can  answer, 

If  you  '11  give  me  just  a  little  information  in  ad- 
vance, sir : 

How  much  ' coupons '  are  you  worth,  how  much 
'ducats'  can  you  put  up? 

This  'collateral'  's  the  stuff.  How  much  'assets' 
do  you  foot  up? 

Little  Laura  is  expensive,  and  I  don't  want  you  to 
court  her 

If  you  have  n't  got  'securities '  sufficient  to  support 
her." 


NEUTRALIA.  339 

Here  we  opened  out  onr  belfry,  and  replied  :  "  Sev- 

erial  dollars' 
Worth  of  recklessness  and  shape,  and  a  box  of 

paper  collars." 
And  we  weighed  him  out  a  chunk,  (on  that  bone 

that 's  got  that  Latin 
Name  we  spoke  of  once  before,)  and  of  course  he 

had  to  flatten. 


Then  we  turned  upon  the  colonel,  saying:  "John, 
we  've  brought  your  saddle 

Home  and  hung  it  on  the  floor."  Here  the  colonel 
did  skedaddle 

Through  the  door  that  we  had  opened  for  his 
egress,  and  he  ran  on 

Down  the  street,  as  if  we  'd  shot  him  from  a  twelve- 
inch  rifled  cannon. 


Then  we  took  old  Banger  home  in  a  'bus  that  hap- 
pened handy, 

And  we  bade  him  an  adieu  on  the  steps  of  his 
veranda ; 

And  for  many  days  thereafter  Banger  toted  a  pro- 
boscis 

That  was  big  enough  to  fit  on  the  Khodian 
colossus. 


330  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

On  the  next  day  came  our  grief — hope  showed 
nothing  to  abridge  it  — 

Laura  wore  the  colonel's  ring  on  her  left,  engage- 
ment digit ; 

And  we  thought  when  we  beheld  her  view  us 
coldly  like  a  stoic, 

That  we  'd  go  and  do  a  something  most  roman- 
tic'ly  heroic. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

I  can  give  you  a  prescription  that  will  always  make 

a  hero ; 
Go  and  get  a  full-fledged  lover  and   reduce  his 

hopes  to  zero ; 
Get  a  man  that  loves  a  woman  with  devotion  pure 

and  steady, 
Let  the  woman  "go  back  on  him,"  and  your  hero 

is  all  ready ; 
Now  just  turn  him  loose  and  watch  him :  see,  old 

Cerberus,  he  cringes  1 
See  !   the  red-hot  gates  are  beaten  from  their  solid, 

brazen  hinges, 
And  HELL'S  blue  platinum  standards  he  is  sabring 

into  fringes ; 


NEUTRAUA.  331 

And  he  's  dealing  harsh  percussion,  with  a  violence 
volcanic, 

On  the  hacked  and  battered  helmet  of  his  majesty 
satanic, 

Who  calls  wildly  on  his  squadrons,  that  are  crum- 
bling into  panic. 


I  was  feeling  very  ugly  at  the  present  trying  junc- 
ture, 

And  I  made  my  mind  up  fully  that  I  really  ought 
to  puncture 

Colonel  S.'s  epidermis,  as  a  moral  obligation, 

When  old  Skubobs  got  an  order  for  a  sudden 
change  of  station, 

And  in  eighty  hours  thereafter  we  were  trying  hard 
to  plant  a 

Little  striped  piece  of  bunting  on  the  bastions  of 
Atlanta ; 

And  the  vibratory  roaring  of  the  Parrot  and  the 
mortar 

Gave  me  something  else  to  think  of  in  the  place 
of  Banger's  daughter, 

Who  a  thousand  miles  in  safety  from  the  carnival 
infernal, 

Was  a-dreaming  of  the  danger  of  her  rich  and  ab- 
sent colonel; 


332  RHYMES  OF  1RONQUILL. 

Who  not  fancying  the  danger,  got  a  detail  of  em- 
ploy 

Buying  horses  for  our  army  corps  in  southern 
Illinois. 


All  communities  are  cannon  —  intellect  Is  ammu- 
nition ; 

Man  is  simply  a  projectile,  flung  with  more  or  less 
precision. 

And  the  more  you  jam  him  down,  if  he  only  has 
the  powder, 

Why,  the  higher  up  he  goes,  and  the  gun  it  roars 
the  louder. 

And  the  globe-sight  of  that  cannon  is  a  woman, 
and  her  station 

Is  to  give  the  rash  projectile  proper  flight  and  ele- 
vation — 

To  the  sky  or  to  the  mud  it  must  go  at  her  dicta- 
tion. 

CHAPTER  xv. 

Well,  we  whacked  'em   at  Atlanta  —  we  whaled 

'em,  we  flailed  'em, 
Then  we  raced   'em  down  through  Georgia,  till 

they  did  n't  know  what  ailed  'em ; 


NEUTRALIA.  333 

And  we  sang  and  marched  a-fighting,  and  we  fit 
and  sang  a-m  arch  ing, 

And  we  left  a  belt  of  charcoal  through  a  country 
scathed  and  parching. 

But  the  grub  gave  out  at  last,  GLORY  could  no 
more  elate  us, 

And  we  sighed  for  rice  and  mule-pie,  and  we  for- 
aged sweet  potatoes; 

Till  at  last  old  Sherman  told  us :  "  Boys,  we  're  just 
o-bleeged  to  reach  a 

Little  fleet  of  grub  that 's  floating  at  the  mouth  of 
the  Ogeechee ; 

But  a  fort,  my  cherished  bummers,  lies  between 
you  and  the  water, 

And  we  've  got  to  live  on  yams  till  you  thieves 
have  gone  and  got  her ; 

It 's  a  perfect  little  daisy,  and  will  have  to  be 
scaladfd ; 

All  the  parapets  are  steep,  scarp  and  glacis  pali- 
saded. 

And  the  pathway  of  attack  will  be  five-fold  en- 
filaded." 

Then  he  turned  and  asked  old  Hazen  if  he  thought 
his  "  boys  "  could  make  it. 

"Make  it!"  said  old  Hazen,  "make  it!  ain't  they 
just  o-bleeged  to  take  it?  " 


334  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

Oh,  the  way  that  we  went  for  itl   and  in  just  a 

holy  minute 
We  were  through  it,  'round  it,  under  it,  and  over 

it  and  in  it; 
Oh,  the  way  we  just  went  through  'em — like  a 

regiment  of  tunnels ! 
Till  we  struck  our  broad  supply  ships,  with  their 

fuming,  fiery  funnels, 
And  with  rations  on  their  decks,  piled  six  yards 

above  the  "gunnells." 
"See  the  bummers !  "  said  old  Sherman,  with  most 

elegant  emotion  ; 
"Ain't  their  heads  as  horizontal  as  the  boozom  of 

the  ocean  ? " 
Old  Tecumseh,  then  "sasha'd"  in  a  manner  very 

frantic, 
And  lean  Corse,  of  steep  Altoona,  he  was  equally 

as  antic: 
They  had  finished  the  campaign  from  Atlanta  to 

Atlantic. 


Then  beside  the  tireless  ocean  did  we  cheer  the 
spangled  banner, 

And  sing  "Good-bye,  'Lizer  Jane,"  in  an  incoher- 
ent manner. 


NEUTRALIA.  335 

CHAPTER    XVI. 

What  was  little  Laura  doing?     She  was  reading 

hasty  snatches, 
Here  and  there,  of  grand,  old  battles,  in  the  rapid 

press  dispatches ; 
She  was  looking  through  the  papers  for  her  rich, 

high-minded  suitor  — 
He,  the  bravo  of  a  parlor;  he,  the  dashing,  gay 

recruiter  — 
Who  had  gambled  and  kept  bar  from  McGregor 

down  to  Natchez  — 
It  was  he  that  she  was  seeking  in  the  rapid  press 

dispatches. 


Then    she   said:    "If  I  shall  find    him  with    the 

wounded,  dead,  or  dying, 
It  will  be  with  FAME'S  bay  chaplet  on  his  manly 

bosom  lying. 
So  intrepid  and  so  fearless  —  ah  !   my  colonel,  my 

Apollo, 
Being  led  by  such  as  thou  art,  who  is  he  that  dares 

not  follow  ? 
All  the  world  shall  be  emblazoned  with  thy  rash, 

magnetic  valor" — 
Here  she  stopped  to  read  a  moment,  and  her  face 

it  blanched  with  pallor, 


336  RHYMES   OF  IRONQUILL. 

For  she  read  a  little  "local,"  how  the  colonel,  up 

at  Cairo, 
Went  and  gambled  off  his  money  at  a  little  game 

called  "faro." 
With  about  a  hundred  thousand  he  had  wisely  been 

intrusted, 
So  he  hunted  up  a  "tiger,"  and  he  stayed  with  it 

till  busted ; 
And  he  hadn't  bought  a  horse  —  so  the  colonel 

rose  and  "dusted." 
But  they  captured  him  at  last,  and  they  gave  him 

an  impartial 

Sort  of  trial  down  at  Memphis,  at  a  general  court- 
martial  ; 
And  because  he  fed  the  tiger  with  some  cash  that 

wasn't  his  'n, 
They    contracted    for    his    labor    in    a    military 

prison. 


Little  Laura  reads  the  local ;  not  upon  her  taper 

finger 
Does  the  amethystine  circlet  of  the  colonel  longer 

linger, 
But  she  throws  it  from  her,  shrieking  —  and  the 

blue-eyed  little  dreamer, 
Swooning  on  the  Brussels  carpet,  lies  without  a 

single  tremor. 


NEUTRALIA.  337 

CHAPTER   XVII. 

Many   years   have   passed    and    ended  —  Colonel 

Skopendyke  is  buried ; 
General  Skubobs  reached  the  Senate,  his  opponent 

being  ferried 
Up  a  salt,  salciferous  streamlet  in  the  kingdom  of 

Kentucky, 
Just  because  his  name  wa'  n't  Skubobs,  which  was 

certainly  unlucky. 


And  old  Skubobs  he  is  honest,  draws  his  mileage 

and  per  diem ; 
There  are  some  who  do  not  like  him,  but  there  's 

no  one  that  can  buy  him ; 
And  he  's  never  absent-minded,  and  you  never  see 

him  walking 
Off  and  leave  his  mouth  behind  him  in  the  Senate 

chamber  talking. 


Boggs,  the  preacher's  son,  has  vanished;  from 
reports,  as  far  as  we  know, 

He  is  up  in  Kansas  City,  and  a-canvassing  for  keno  ; 

Years  ago,  in  Cowley  county,  with  a  little  twelve- 
inch  breaker, 

He  produced  a  crop  of  sod-corn,  sixteen  bushels  to 
the  acre; 


338  RHYMES   OF  IRONQUILL. 

And  he  platted  out  a  city,  but  he  could  n't  show  a 

comer 
Any  corners,  for  the  grass  had  grown  so  fearfully 

that  summer. 


Doctor  Chopemup,  the  surgeon,  he  has  lately  gone 

to  giving 
Good  advice  instead  of  pills,  and  he  makes   an 

honest  living; 
He  has  quit  inspecting  pulses  and  regenerating 

eye-balls, 
And  has  gone  to  spreading  tracts,  and  a-hammer- 

ing  on  Bibles. 


As  he  could  n't  save  men's  bodies,  he  assumed  the 
useful  task  a- 

Saving  all  the  balance  of  'em,  up  in  Omaha,  Ne- 
braska ; 

His  best  hold  is  "immortality" — he  gives  it  to 
them  monthly, 

And  the  deacons  wake  the  snorers  when  he  reaches 
"  twenty-ouethly." 


NEUTRALIA.  339 


CHAPTER 

Old  man  Banger  is  a  pauper.     When  the  banks 

began  to  crumble, 
And  the  price  of  gold  was  falling,  he  was  ruined 

in  the  tumble. 
All  his  money  and  his  courage  simultaneously  left 

him, 
And  unceasingly  he  murmurs  at  the  bad  luck  that 

bereft  him. 


Since  his  money  has  departed  he  has  nothing  left 
but  timor — 

All  that  mercenary  arrogance  has  gone  without  a 
glimmer; 

Money  made  him  and  unmade  him,  it  was  all  that 
could  sustain  him ; 

Fortune,  taking  it  away,  irretrievably  had  slain 
him. 

Now  a  dreary  monomania  is  slowly  o'er  him  steal- 
ing— 

A  sort  of  "he-wlio-enters-here-leaves-hope-behind- 

him"  feeling. 

Any  man  is  BRAVE  with  money ;  braver  far  is  he 
without  it 

Who  dares  always  act  uprightly,  and  not  fret  him- 
self about  it 


340  RHYMES   OF  1RONQUILL. 

We  should  keep  our  faith  and  courage ;  if  calami- 
ties assail  us, 

If  misfortunes  swoop  down  on  us,  like  the  vultures 
of  Stymphalus, 

It  will  never  do  to  weaken,  it  is  cowardice  to  fly 
them ; 

Do  like  old  Troilian  Ajax — strike  an  attitude, 
defy  them. 

If  we  waver  and  fall  back,  Fate  will  ever  then  be 
urging 

Us  like  quarry  slaves  at  nightfall,  homeward  to 
our  dungeon  scourging. 

Madam  Parvenoodle's  husband  is  a  prominent  civil- 
ian— 

He  has  sweetened  Uncle  Samuel  for  over  half  a 
million ; 

Wherefore'Madam  got  religious,  and  she  jined  the 
church  for  morals, 

And  she  prates  about  her  Bible,  and  her  neighbors, 
and  their  quarrels ; 

And  she  says  she  's  got  a  Saviour,  and  a  spanking 
span  of  sorrels. 

Every  man  and  every  woman,  irrespective  of  posi- 
tion, 

Is  a  living,  breathing  romance,  be  they  pauper  or 
patrician. 


NEUTRALIA.  341 

Each  day's  doings  make  a  pamphlet,  which  we 

bind  in  gold  and  velvet, 
And  beside  preceding  volumes  in  our  memory  we 

shelve  it. 


When  at  evening,  tired  of  labor  at  the  counter, 

shop  or  forum, 
In  our  stocking  feet  we  saunter  into   memory's 

sanctorum, 
We  unshelve   these    treasured  volumes,  and    we 

silently  look  o'er  'em  ; 
Then  we  find,  oh,  fickle  Hope  I  how  you   always 

hold  back  from  us 
Just  the  very  things  we  need,  just  the  very  things 

you  promise. 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

When  the  work  of  day  has  ended,  and  the  evening 
shuts  the  skylight, 

When  the  Northern  Crown  and  Hydra  stand  trans- 
figured in  the  twilight, 

When  Orion's  blazing  girdle  gleams  with  hues  of 
gold  and  lilacs, 

And  around  the  pole  careening  whirls  the  phantom 
Arcto-Phylax, 


Oft  I  go  to  read  these  pamphlets,  in   the  alcove 

where  I  store  thein.^ 
In  the  parlor  of  my  memory,  I  one  by 


/)    J     /,°'er  t^iem- 
•      /     Warsare  schoolings  of  the  nations,  and  the  records 

//I  yf  7^1    ante-bell  um  '  fl 

Are,  like  palimpsests,  o'erwr/tten  in  vermilion  on 


ves  I  take  them  gently,  with  their 
and  velvet  covers; 
One  by  one  I  turn  their  pages,  read  of  heroines 

and  lovers  ; 
Read  of  recklessness  in  man,  read  of  constancy  in 

woman, 
Read  of  marches  and  of  sieges,  and  endurance 

superhuman, 
Which  the  intervening  years  with  prismatic  hues 

illumine. 

Then  my  fancies  change  to    dreaming,  and    the 

chandelier  burns  dimmer, 
And  its  rays  begin  to  waver,  with  a  pale,  unsteady 

glimmer  ; 
And  they  wander  o'er  the  ceiling,  and  the  sofa, 

floor,  and  curtain, 
With  irresolute  demeanor,  chilly,  gloomily,  uncer- 

tain ; 


NEUTRALIA.  343 

And  they  quarrel  with  the  shadows,  which  they 

vainly  try  to  banish, 
Then  they  gather  up  their  forces  and  mysteriously 

vanish. 


All  at  once  come  indications  of  a  strange,  odylic 

presence, 
And  the  atmosphere  and  room  teem  with  magic 

phosphorescence ; 
Brighter  grows  the  room  and   brighter,  and  each 

coming  moment  tripples, 
On  the  floor  and  walls  the  lustre  of  the  live,  electric 

ripples. 

And  they  stand  in  bold  relief,  every  moment  grow- 
ing bolder, 

Till  I  feel  some  unseen  fingers  rest  their  weight 
upon  my  shoulder ; 

Then  I  feel  the  thermal  currents  of  some  mild, 
mesmeric  aura, 

And  it  whispers  —  I  awaken  —  'twas  the  bine-eyed 
little  Laura. 


344  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


ADIEU. 

Oft  the  resonance  of  rhymes 
Future  hearts  and  distant  times 

May  impress ; 
Shall  humanity  to  me, 
Like  my  Kansas  prairies,  be 

Echoless? 

IBONQUILL. 


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